




V- a\' j • *_ <<S * *ff' 

> . i , • * '<? - ? Lj a> : v * «.^ v ,.. . - - *\" * i i 

I i ^ V. vVX^>* F V '\ ' v-~^V ,/% °VF^ F' \ 

' v 0 V < * ' 7.* ♦' .A A>, 'O^T' ' .0 V - •/ *. " «\A 

* *, A, 

, % A -■ < A, A 

*k.■" ■•'■- >°®<. = a°®, - ■‘ •'■■4rAi 


A 


r* V, 

A A x 


>* 

< 


-> c* 
y s 


\ 



a- >i J- ' 

r r> y A- •■” 

V r Vh .'S 3 

/ >■ w 


V / 


. y. 



A 

- v ; 

A 

%. 


•A 


'A' ♦' C- 

> 'V s r A A 

•< 


A A 


:--• * cO ^ o ■< A ,\V An - ’ - -< <* < 

^ * «> Vf. > 4 AA\F * ‘-y yMiC * V. 

N v -'O . <• y 0 « V * *'A . '-J, ' / A <L> 

Q * A ■* k *P j, A t ♦ . f o •O’v'* 

l ' *',^.\ V A ^AA-A ° . F",- 


yA 


~i- ,/ ' * 

F/* * #. a . „ 


\ 


W’ a 


: - 

aV t/> ' v 

A a '.■ 

-i . rfs ' ‘A 

' o , >. * A o * 

\ •• .- <f» AV v p n v.f r- 

* r ■ r ' '^ ♦ ^ v tX 0 ,c-a, y o 

a v> ''■ ■ ^ v 5c 


•f- 

iO o • . ^ > ' • 

. , A^.> o (S.- *- 

^ * , N « ? A° % . 

' J>' *.'*<> r C 

. . • >> .vv;^ ^ • V v -, 

<< ^ * F , ■ y \ ® ,<\ x J , 

A - J _ "c- 


O' 


aS ^ 


\ 

>’ S 


,A V A 


j> ^ N 


'■CF V <P r b’'w u '' y ~+, 'rw,.- 0 o \-w 

n> »>*», A- "'■ 5N ° o'f 1 *"' 

V - : A-^y ■ / x ■' _ j \ - 

v v ' eO--/ •• # A = V. - A ^ - 1 F| ■.- . 0 , i 

A, ' **' ,A' i> i». <A. '«-■* ,a a .„;'V »7JCo'^ ... 


A A 7 ^ 

o * ». ^ A 

A ,*“, 

I , .A ' 

r ^*:- v : a 

v 

F ,0° 




■A 


A' 


•>* V 

, .. , '• •' ^0 x 
&** y X ■ 



/ ., . 'N 

, . •» ,\ 

^ *^P *\ 

fi ^ ^ V s 

oo^. •; 


V •> * Cv, 

-A ' 

X 

^ ^ . c> 4% 7 , 

A > 

° - * tf- ..v. ' \ v 

\ 

C'S , * V; 

-A/l^ ^>\v -• 


\ 



/ 

« 1 '* v ’* AV '-6 "* ■' o,V ^ y mw ft 

\>a" V ^. /y / "> *> +Y*0, r c> ** \> >s ° - 

f •• >i -r 1 . A ^ A X 

v ,j ; -a ^ CL»’ jy ' O '\i‘ * A<- 

/ r ’M ^ - F s r - ^ V ~ a i k% ' a s 

> V % =AA ; if 

,1 I # * -<. .\ x v AA jU ^ 

*- ‘ 0 ^ 0 > *' 1 * 4 '<* S\ 

; , ^ j j. ON’ A A As ', a- A Pc. ‘ 

•i a A VJ r j » V ^ l«K»Zx _ ■» ,x ^ 

\ V C tf. 



a0 c> 

\ x- 

, so' ,0- ^ % 

A 0' C‘ 

\ O r* <^ * 

&y <vV ♦j((\'^ A. F> v \V 

r • * ^ 

\> ^ V I ' A' >. * 



A 

A \ F a 5^ 

- 

\ v ^ 


, *>. * A „ O ’ S 0 ' 

v ' '-V ^ ,o>. 

A. .iiSA ^ 



r> ,^' 

. v> Vf 



O o v^ \ 

* A^> T* ^ V) ^ 

GuSL 


V - 








<, a\ • 0 N c b *1* * * H v ' » /, <* 

-O. \S> s. Cj f\ • ^ * *t <p 

-P ^ » r^ys ' *J> C* 0 ^ ^ 

'Pt /V c % A y ^ ^ ^P, v *^ 


,“»< * A\ . 0 

* <p ^ *• <^ 

sm A: •*• > : 

- .0 o, , 

* c &y/jVdF a \v- 

* HO' ^ C 6 V^, v» V C 

\ r=::', v % v> oi^/t| 

' <<• \\' ^ * •v' 'A. 

\>V r h c </* ,\V 0 i _j V./ a „ ^ A* * 

VW /; . cf* AA AaI “™gg5x %> 


* i . * S A H * 

» oC' "Cf, y ’^7"' ' * 3 

V** Or. y >, A *» 
a- ^ y * <"> 

x\V _ _ ^ »o,0 5 A Y 


Or, A 

V *' 
*< 


^ -I ru %* 

^ :^V 

i c 

y ^ '$<> ft 

X V * 

<* * rCCC^ % e «• 

aV ^ ; W3 *.- a % \ *■ 

s ^ V*fc^A sf.v ^ 

c 0 N '' « 'o. 

■ 1 *3®*. - , 

- - iSfc ' *x v ^ # .; ^P/ O 

^ = ,0 0^ ry^-: 

. -r ^ 4 o> V. y %Tv<'a w 3 •> ^ W>C 

& ,, > ,0' o , ** „ 

v *s. . )j. ** g | 

n> a * * 0 ,. ^ 1 

^ f- » 

^ <<• 


^ ^ •. 
o N o o < _ . ^ 




■V 


rP 5 * x 


'*n 



X. ✓ 

< =P. * -. S 


'^8 1'' 

<Y ^ v ^ o , O 

A J V' % 

? ^jCk\V/% o V> ,< 

lZ c. 

o cy ^ 

<• 'u . x » ,A -3, 'o , s' .G x 

l ”« % v5> l b o' .'■*< 

■ , ^ /.ss$W' " 

- _ 'J'vivv., JZbL s V ^ 

o 0 N 

o5 ^ * 

A v. 

ft 

•> 


< 


) ° 


^ iS 




r 

* '1 y-> 

„ > .0' O 

’“° v % 


o5 -<> 


V 


c zZs'- ; 4 r s vY* or. > ^ -1 ' "* j * aa , 

/- \‘ o^- <-> r ^. s ' y - ^ p.0 ■ c- /. r / 

■ v> s'* ' „ > » ' *■»■■*■ -/ C> 

<j \ x a A y 5» yp 

r \\> ^ (1^ » jfV V '.<> /^1 "" <?' 

<P r ,vV , ;- J frr^ - ">* <rS >.' N v ' r * O xj‘ 

<P V W V 1 ^ S •» &<^'W/ / 'Z y <P 

& *- i < . =e a \i rv ^ \1 


a A 

* .A <? v 




A 


^ y 

V' j 


' ", "c- 

'■■:■■ -"Vo \- A' 


*'” s>' s'** /<, •-> A . . 

^ * G\'v -' 1 •„ % 

r ;; 4A | , 



A ,J ?f> •' ‘JOb’ •' y> 

k ^ w>* .A 

; v ■ ■• *'' . 0 n *' 


oo N 



^ * V v. 

•A. * * > >' x ^\s. • ,„ « 

v o A-'x * 

<■. A- * rrS^ * 



^ > : 
^ o’ X° °o ' 


A v< V % 

X ^ a' A ,S N 0 ^/. '' 1 * ft s 

a aN *«■ , J o. ,.0 V 

■X o'AA» ' ■>• v ' /if A .■ 

• fflTX * °o' ; ;f 

0> ^cl+ 

' #' ** '* ., fo ■> .0° '-c 

-\'-;:A ' A *' •», 

» " Ay % 



$ 


















THE HEART OF A BOY. 


[CUORE.] 















































































































































































* 
































































































































































4 













THE 


Heart of a Boy 

(CUORE) 


A SCHOOLBOY S JOURNAL 

By EDMONDO de AMICIS 


TRANSLATED FROM THE 224th ITALIAN EDITION 
By PROF. G. MANTELLINI 



EDITION DE LUXE 

Containing 32 Pull-page Half-tone Engravings 
and 2(> Text Illustrations 


CHICAGO 

LAIRD & LEE, PUBLISHERS 







38839 


Entered according to Act of Congress in the year eighteen hun¬ 
dred and ninety-ftve by 
WM. H. LEE, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 

Copyright. 1899, by 
Wm. H. Lee. 




JUL 2 7 1899 


^ V’A v ^ ^' 











I 





4 * 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


CONTENTS 


October page 

The Fit si Day of School,. 9 

Our Master,.\ . ..11 

An Accident,.12 

The Calabrian Boy, . 13 

My Classmates,.15 

A Noble Action, .16 

My School Mistress of the Upper First,.18 

In an Attic,.20 

The School.22 

The Tittle Patriot of Padua,.23 

November : 

The Chimney Sweep,.25 

All Souls’ Day. 27 

My Friend Garrone, .28 

The Charcoal Man and the Gentleman, .30 

My Brother’s School-Mistress,.31 

My Mother,.33 

My Companion Coretti, .35 

The Principal of the School,. 39 

The Soldiers, .40 

The Protector of Nelli.42 


/ 
























4 


CONTENTS 


The First of the Class, . . 

The Little Vidette of Lombardy, 
The Poor, ..... 


44 

46 

51 


December : 

The Trading Boy,. 

Vanity, . 

The First Snow Storm,. 

The Little Mason, .... . . 

A Snow Ball, . 

The School-Mistress, . . . , . . 

In the Home of the Wounded Man, 
The Little Florentine Writer, . . . 

Will,. 

Gratitude, . 

January : 

The Substitute,. 

Stardi’s Library, . 

The Son of the Blacksmith, . . . . 

A Nice Visit, . 

The Funeral of Vittorio Emanuele, 
Franti Expelled from School, 

The Sardinian Drummer Boy. . . . 

The Love of Our Country, . . . . 

Envy,. 

Franti’s Mother, . 

Hope,. 

February: 

A Well-Awarded Medal,. 

Good Resolutions,. 

The Little Railway Train, . . . . 

Pride,. . . . 

The Wounds of Work, . 

The Prisoner, .. . 

Papa’s Nurse, . 


53 

54 

56 

58 

59 

62 

63 

65 

72 

74 

75 

77 

78 

80 

82 

83 

85 

93 

95 

97 

99 

101 

103 

104 

106 

108 

110 

113 

































CONTENTS 


5 


The Workshop,.122 

The Little Clown,.124 

The Last Day of the Carnival, ..128 

The Blind Boys, . 131 

The Sick Master,.137 

The Street,.139 

March : 

The Evening Schools, . 140 

The Fight,.142 

The Boy’s Relatives,.144 

Number 78,. 146 

The Little Dead Boy,.148 

The Day before the Fourteenth of March,.150 

The Distribution of Prizes,.151 

A Quarrel,.156 

My Sister, . 158 

Blood of Romagna. .160 

The Little Mason Seriously Ill, ......... 168 

The Count Cavour, . 170 

April : 

Spring. 172 

King Umberto,.173 

The Infant Asylum,.178 

At the Gymnasium, .182 

My Father’s Teacher,.185 

Convalescence,.194 

The Friend of the Workman,.196 

Garrone’s Mother,. 198 

Giuseppe Mazzini,.199 

Civic Valor,.201 

May : 

The Children with the Rickets.206 

Sacrifice,.208 

The Fire.210 

































CONTENTS 


From the Apennines to the Andes. 214 

Summer,. 2< ^ 

Poetry, . 2 ^ 9 

The Deaf and Dumb Girl,.251 

June : 

Garibaldi, .258 

The Army,. 260 

Italy,. 2,)2 

Thirty-two Degrees Centigrade, . 263 

My Father,. 2 ^ 

In the Country, . 2 ®6 

The Distribution of Prizes to the Workmen, .269 

My Dead School Mistress, .272 

Thanks,. 274 

A Shipwreck. 27 ^ 

July: * 

The East Page from My Mother, ..••••••• 282 

The Examination, ......•••••••• 283 

The East Examination,.285 

Farewell,. 287 





















schools, between the ages of nine to thirteen years, and it 
might be called, “History of a School Year, by a pupil of 
the Third Grade of a Public School in Italy.” 


By saying that it was written by a pupil of the third grade, 
I do not wish to convey the idea that it was written by him 
entire, or as it appears in print. The boy noted down success- 




















ively in a copy-book, what he knew, what he saw, what he 
felt, thought and experienced inside and outside the school; 
and his father, at the end of the year, wrote these pages from 
those notes, endeavoring not to alter the thought but to pre¬ 
serve, as near as possible, even the words used by his son. 
The latter, however, four years later, having entered the High 
School, re-read the manuscript and added to it something of 
his own, drawing upon his memory, still fresh, of the people 
and things. 

Now read this book, boys. I hope it will please you and 
do you some good. 














THE HEART OF A BOY 


OCTOBER 

THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL 

Monday the 17th. 

This is the first day of school. My three months spent in 
the country passed like a dream. This morning my mother 
took me to the Baretti school to have me entered for the third 
elementary grade. I was thinking of the country and went 
reluctantly. The streets were swarming with boys; the book¬ 
sellers’ shops crowded with fathers and mothers who were 
buying bags, portfolios, and copybooks; and so many people 
thronged in front of the school that a janitor and policeman 
had a very hard time keeping the entrance clear. 

Near the door, some one touched me on the shoulder; it was 
my teacher of the second elementary. Always cheerful, he said: 

“ Well, Enrico, are we separated forever? ” 

I knew it too well, still those words pained me. 

We made our way through the crowd with difficulty. 
Ladies, gentlemen, women of the middle class, workingmen, 
officers, grandmothers, servants, each leading a boy with one 
hand and holding the books of promotion with the other, were 
crowding the entrance and the stairway, making such a buzzing 
that it seemed like entering a theatre. I saw with pleasure the 
large hall on the ground floor with the doors of the seven class 
rooms where I had passed nearly every day for three years. 
There was a crowd of school mistresses coming and going. She 


( 9 ) 



10 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


who had taught me in the first upper class saluted me from the 
door of her room and said: 

“ Enrico, you go upstairs this year, I shall not even see you 
pass!” and looked at me with sadness. The principal had 
around him mothers in distress because there was no room for 
their children, and it seemed to me that his beard was a little 
whiter than it was last year. I also noticed that some of the 
boys had grown taller and stouter. 

On the ground floor, where the divisions had already been 
made, there were children of the first and lowest grade who did 
not want to enter the class-room and who balked like donkeys; 
it was necessary to push them in ; some escaped again from 
their benches; others, seeing their parents leave, commenced to 
cry, and the father or mother would return to offer consolation 
or take them home again, and the teachers were in despair. 

My little brother was to enter the class of Mistress Delcati; 
I was put in that of Master Perboni up on the first floor. 

At ten o’clock we were all in the class-room; fifty-four of us; 
only fifteen or sixteen of my class-mates of the second grade, 
among whom was Derossi, the one who always wins the first 
prize. The school-room seemed small and sad to me. I was 
thinking of the woods and mountains where I had spent the 
summer. I was also thinking of my teacher of the second 
class; he was so good and always laughed with us, and so small 
that he seemed like a companion, and I was sorry not to see 
him there with his bushy red hair. Our present teacher is tall, 
with long hair and no beard, and he has a straight wrinkle 
across his forehead. His voice is heavy and he looks at us 
fixedly, as though to read our inmost thoughts; I do not think 
he ever laughs. I was saying to myself: “This is the first 
day. Nine more months. How much work, how many 
monthly examinations, how much fatigue! ” I felt the need of 
finding my mother at the close. I ran to her and kissed her 
hand. She said: “ Courage, Enrico f we will study together, ’ ’ 
and I returned home happy. But I no longer have my master 










THE HEART OF A BOY 


11 


with his kind and cheerful smile, and the school does not seem 
so pleasant to me as it did last year. 


OUR MASTER 


Tuesday the 18th. 

My new teacher pleases me since this morning. While we 
were coming in, he stood at his post, and many of his pupils 
of last year peeped in through the door to salute him: 
“ Good day, Signor teacher,” “Good day, Signor Perboni;” 
some would enter, touch his hand and run away. It was plain 
that they liked him and would have been pleased to remain 
with him. He answered : “ Good day,” shook the hands that 
were tendered him, but looked at no one, and at every salute 
remained serious, with the straight wrinkle on his forehead, 
turning his head toward the window and looking at the roof of 
the house opposite. Instead of enjoying those salutations he 
seemed to suffer from them. Then he looked at us, one after 
the other, attentively. While dictating, he came walking 
down between the benches, and seeing a scholar whose face 
was all red with pimples, he paused, took the boy’s face be¬ 
tween his hands and looked at him; asked the cause of the 
trouble and felt his forehead to see if it were warm. In the 
meanwhile, the boy behind him stood up on the bench and be¬ 
gan to play the marionette. Our master turned around sud¬ 
denly; the boy sat down quickly and awaited his punishment. 
The teacher placed his hand on his head and said: “ Do not 
do it any more!” and returned to his desk. When he had 
finished dictating, he looked at us silently for a moment, and 
then said very slowly, in his heavy yet kind voice: 

“ Listen, we have a year to pass together, let us seek to 
pass it well. Study and be good. I have no family. You 
may take the place of my family. I had a mother last year 
but she is dead. I have no one else in the world now but you. 


12 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


I have no other affection, no other thought than you. You 
must be my sons; I love you; you must love me. I do not 
want to be obliged to punish any one. Show me that you are 
boys with good hearts, and our school will be a family and you 
will be my consolation and my pride. I do not ask a promise 
of you, I am sure that in your hearts you have already told me 
‘yes’ and I thank you.” 

At that moment the janitor came in to announce that the 
class was over, and we left our desks very quietly. The boy 
who had stood up on his bench approached the master and 
said to him in a trembling voice : 

“Signor master, will you forgive me?” 

The master kissed his forehead and said: “ Go, my son.” 


AN ACCIDENT 


Friday the 21st. 

The year has commenced with an accident. Going to school 
this morning, I was repeating the words of the teacher to my 
father, when we beheld the street thronged with people who 
were crowding in front of the school. My father said: “An 
accident! the year commences badly.” 

We entered with some difficulty. The large hall was so 
crowded with relatives of the boys that the teachers could 
hardly reach their class-rooms, and all were turned toward the 
principal's room and we could hear them saying, “ Poor boy.” 
“ Poor Robetti! ” 

Above the heads at the further end of the room, which was 
thronged with people, one could see the helmet of a policeman 
and the bald head of the principal; then a gentleman with a 
silk hat entered and they all said: “It is the doctor.” My 
father asked a teacher what was the matter, and he answered: 
“A wheel passed over his foot.” “ It crushed his foot,” said 
another. “It is a boy of the second grade, who, when 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


13 


coming to school through the street Dora Grossa, saw a child 
of the first grade, who had run away from his mother, fall in 
the middle of the street only a few steps from an omnibus 
which was coming upon him. He ran and caught up the boy 
and put him in safety, but not being quick enough to withdraw 
his own foot, the omnibus had passed over it. He is the son 
of an artillery captain.” While they were telling us this, a lady 
entered the room looking like a crazy woman, breaking her 
way through the crowd. It was the mother of Robetti, for 
whom they had sent. Another lady ran to meet her and threw 
her arms around her neck, sobbing; it was the mother of the 
child who had been saved. Both ran into the room and a des¬ 
perate cry was heard : Oh, my Giulio, my child! ” 

At that moment a carriage stopped in front of the door, and 
the principal appeared with the boy in his arms, the sufferer's 
head leaning upon his shoulder, with a white face and closed 
eyes. All were silent, and one could hear the mother sobbing. 
The principal stopped a moment, raised the boy with both arms 
and showed him to the people. Then masters, mistresses, par¬ 
ents and boys murmured together: “ Bravo, Robetti! Bravo, poor 
boy! ” They threw kisses at him, and the mistresses and boys 
who were near him kissed his hands and his arms. He opened 
his eyes and said: “ My satchel ! ” The mother of the boy 
who had been saved showed it to him and said : “I will bring 
it for you, you angel, I will bring it for you.” In the mean¬ 
time she was sustaining the mother of the wounded boy, who 
covered her face with both hands. They went out, laid the 
boy in the carriage, which was driven away. Then we all 
entered the class room silently. 

THE CALABRIAN BOY 

Saturday the 22nd. 

Last evening, while the teacher was giving us the news of 
poor Robetti—who will be compelled to walk on crutches for a 



14 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


time—the principal entered the class room with a new pupil, a 
boy with a brown face, black hair, big black eyes, and with 
thick eyebrows which met between his eyes. He was dressed 
in dark clothes with a black leather belt around his waist. 
The principal, after whispering into the ear of the master, left 
the boy with him. He looked at us with his big black eyes as 
though he were frightened. Then the master took him by the 
hand, and said to the class: “You must congratulate your¬ 
selves. To-day there enters the school a little Italian boy, born 
at Reggio di Calabria, more than five hundred miles away from 
here. You must love your brother w T ho comes from so far. 
He was born in that glorious country which has given to Italy 
many illustrious men, that still gives her strong workers and 
brave soldiers; where there are great forests and high moun¬ 
tains; one of the finest parts of our land, inhabited by people 
full of talent and courage. Do love him in a way that will 
make him forget that he is far away from the place where he 
was born. Demonstrate to him that an Italian boy, no matter 
in what Italian school he may be placed, will find brothers 
there.” After saying this, he arose and pointed out on the 
wall map of Italy the place where Reggio di Calabria is situ¬ 
ated. Then he called: 

‘ ‘ Ernest Derossi, ’ ’ the one who always gets the first prize. 
Derossi stood up. 

“ Come here,” said the master. Derossi left the bench and 
went and stood by the desk opposite the Calabrian boy. 

“ As the first in the school,” said the master, “give a wel¬ 
come to your new' companion, the welcome of a boy of Pied¬ 
mont to the son of Calabria.” 

Derossi embraced the Calabrian boy, saying with his clear 
voice, “Welcome! ” and the latter kissed him on both cheeks 
with impetuosity. All clapped their hands. “Silence! ” cried 
the master; “one does not clap hands at school;” but one 
could see that he was happy; the Calabrian boy was also happy. 


f 







: SW- • <:#•* l ' 


rr 


v ".. 

7^. W,: .__ 




mm 














1 








*■ 


A 







THE HEART OF A BOY 


15 


The master assigned him his place and accompanied him to 
his desk, then he said : 

‘ ‘ Remember what I am about to tell you. In order that a 
Calabrian boy might be at home in Turin, and that a boy of 
Turin be welcome in Reggio di Calabria, our country fought for 
fifty years and thirty thousand Italians died. You must respect 
each other, love each other, and any one who would offend his 
class-mate because he was not born in our province would 
rende, himself ever unworthy to raise his eyes when the flag 
of our country passes. ’ ’ 

As soon as the Calabrian boy was seated in his place, his 
neighbors presented him with some pens and a picture, and 
another boy from the last bench sent him a rare Swedish post¬ 
age stamp. 


MY CLASSMATES 

Tuesday the 25th. 

The boy who sent the postage stamp to the Calabrian boy 
is the one I like best. He is called Garrone; is the tallest of 
the class, and is almost fourteen years old. He has a large head 
and broad shoulders. He is good, one can see that when he 
smiles, but it seems to me that he is all the time thinking like 
a man. I already know the names of my classmates. There 
is another one I like; his name is Coretti, and he wears a knit¬ 
ted chocolate colored coat and a cat-skin cap. He is always 
jolly; he is the son of a huckster of wood, who was a soldier in 
the war of ’66, in the army of Prince Humbert, and I have 
heard he has three medals. There is little Nelli, a hunchback, 
a frail boy with a pale face. There is one very well dressed, 
who wears fine velvet and who is called Votini. On the bench 
near me there is a boy whom they call “The Little Mason ” 
because his father is a mason. His face is round like an apple, 
his nose is like a ball, and he has a particular skill for making 
the “hare’s face.” He wears a little soft hat which he dou¬ 
bles up like a handkerchief and puts in his pocket. Next to the 


16 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


Little Mason, there is Garoffi, a tall, thin fellow with a nose 
like an owl’s beak and very small eyes. He is always trading 
marbles, pictures, match boxes, and stamps. He writes his 
lessons on his nails to read when the teacher is not watching 
him. There is also a little gentleman called Carlo Nobis. He 
looks as though he were rather proud, and he sits between two 
boys whom I like very much; one is the son of a blacksmith 
ironmonger. He wears a big coat which reaches down to his 
knees, seems fearful of saying much and never laughs. The 
other is a lad with red hair who has a withered arm which he 
carries in a sling suspended from his neck. His father has gone 
to America, and his mother goes around selling green vegetables. 

Stardi, my neighbor on the left, is a curious type. He is a 
little fellow, heavily built, a grumbler who never speaks to 
any one and seems to understand very little. He pays atten¬ 
tion to the teacher without winking, with his forehead wrinkled 
and his teeth shut tight. If spoken to while the master speaks, 
the first and second time he does not answer, but the third time 
he kicks. He has next to him a boy with a shrewd face. His 
name is Franti, and he has already been expelled from another 
school. There are also two brothers who look as much alike 
as two drops of water. They both wear hats Calabrian in 
style with a pheasant feather stuck in the top. But the hand¬ 
somest and most talented one of all, he who will surely be the 
first this year, is Derossi; and the teacher, who has already 
comprehended this, questions him all the time. However, 1 
like Precossi, the son of the blacksmith ironmonger, the boy 
who wears the long jacket, and who looks so scared ; they say his 
father beats him. He is very timid, and every time he questions 
or touches any one, he says “ Excuse me,” and looks up with 
his sad, gentle eyes. But Garrone is the bravest and the best. 

A NOBLE ACTION. 

Wednesday the 26th. 

Garrone made himself known this morning. When I 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


17 


entered the school (a little late, as I had been stopped by 
my old teacher of the first grade, who asked me at what time 
she might come to see us at home) the teacher had not yet 
arrived, and three or four boys were tormenting poor Crossi, 
the one with red hair, who has a paralyzed arm and whose 
mother sells green vegetables. They would poke him with 
rulers, throw chestnut burrs in his face, and call him “ cripple ’ ’ 
and “ monster,” mimicking him as he appeared with his with¬ 
ered arm suspended by the sling from his neck. He was all 
alone at his end of the bench looking like a dead person, and 
was listening, looking first at one and then at another with 
supplicating eyes, beseeching them to let him alone, but they 
ridiculed him still more and he commenced to tremble and 
redden with rage. All of a sudden Franti, the one with the 
ugly face, jumped on the bench, pretending that he was carry¬ 
ing two baskets on his arms, aping Crossi’s mother as she used 
to come and wait for her son at the door; for now she is ill. 
Many began to laugh loudly. Then Crossi lost his head, and 
grasping an ink-stand he threw it with all his might at the head 
of Franti, who dodged it, and it struck the chest of the teacher, 
who was just entering the school room. The boys all scam¬ 
pered to their places and were silent and frightened. 

The teacher, pallid, ascended to his desk and in an altered 
voice asked : 

“Who did it?” 

No one answered. 

The teacher looked again, raising his voice, and demanded : 
“Who did it?” 

Then Garrone, moved with pity for poor Crossi, rose with 
a dash and said, resolutely : “It was I.” 

The teacher looked at him, and then at the other pupils, as 
though stupified, and said in a tranquil voice : “ No, it was 
not you.” 

After a moment, he added : “The guilty one will not be 
punished; let him rise.” 


18 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


Crossi rose and said, crying: “They were beating me, 
they were insulting me, and I lost my head and threw 

“ Sit down,” said the teacher. “Those who provoked him 
rise up.” 

Four arose with bowed heads. 

“You,” said the teacher, “ you have insulted a companion 
who did not provoke you; you have marked an unfortunate 
boy, tormented a weak one who could not defend himself. You 
have committed one of the lowest acts, one of the most shame¬ 
ful that can stain a human creature. Cowards! ” 

Having said this, he descended among the benches, put a 
hand under Garrone’s chin, who sat with his head down, mak¬ 
ing him raise his face; he looked straight into his eyes and 
said : “You are a noble soul! ” 

Garrone, profiting by the moment, murmured something in 
the ear of the master, wdio turned toward the guilty ones and 
said: “ I forgive you. ” 


MY SCHOOL MISTRESS OF THE UPPER FIRST 

Thursday the 27th. 

My old teacher has kept her word. She called at the house 
to-day, just as I was going out with my mother to take wash¬ 
ing to a poor woman mentioned in the paper. It was a year 
since we had seen her in our home, and we all greeted her 
cheerfully. She is not changed ; still the same little woman 
with a large green veil around her head, plainly dressed and 
her hair carelessly arranged. She has no time to make herself 
look nice. She has a little less color than she had last year, 
has some white hair, and coughs all the time. My mother said 
to her: 

“Dear teacher, you do not take good care of yourself.” 

“Oh, never mind,” she answered with a pleasant, but 
melancholy smile. 


t 


s 




























THE HEART OF A BOY 


19 


“ You strain your voice so,” suggested my mother. ‘ ‘ You 
do too much for the boys. ’ ’ 

It is true one can always hear her voice. I remember 
when I was going to her school, she always spoke so that the 
boys would not become inattentive, and she would not remain 
seated for a moment. I was very sure she would come be¬ 
cause she never forgets her pupils. She remembers their 
names year by year, and on the days of the monthly examina¬ 
tion, runs to the principal to ask how many points they have 
made. She waits for them at the exit and has them show their 
compositions to see whether they have made progress. Some 
of the boys from the high school, who wear long trousers and 
carry a watch, still come to see her. To-day she was return¬ 
ing, all out of breath, from the Pinacoteca (picture gallery) 
where she had taken her boys. Last year she took her pupils 
every Thursday to a museum and explained everything to them. 
Poor mistress; she has grown thinner than of old, but she is 
still lively. She always becomes animated when any one 
speaks to her of the school. She wished to see again the bed 
where she beheld me sick two years ago, and which is now my 
brother’s; she looked at it for awhile and could not speak. She 
could not stay long as she had to go and visit a boy of her 
class who is sick with the measles, the son of a saddler close by. 
Besides, she had a bundle of papers to correct, an evening’s 
work, and two private lessons in arithmetic to give to a woman 
who keeps a shop, before night came. 

“ Well, Enrico,” she said to me when going, “do you still 
love your mistress, now that you are able to solve a difficult 
problem and can write a long composition ? ’ ’ She kissed me 
and called up from the bottom of the stairs: “ Do not forget 
me, Enrico!” 

Oh, my good mistress, never, never will I forget you. 
When I am a big fellow, I will still remember you and will go 
to see you among your boys, and every time I pass near a 
school and hear the voice of a mistress, it will seem to me that 


20 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


I hear your voice, and I will live over again the two years 
which I spent in your school, where I learned many things; 
where I saw you so many times so sick and tired, yet always 
so cheerful, so intelligent, and in despair if one acquired some 
bad way of holding the pen ; trembling when the examiner 
questioned us, happy when we made a good showing; always 
good, always loving like a mother. Never, never, will I forget 
you, my mistress! 


IN AN ATTIC 

Friday the 28th. 

Last evening, my mother, sister and I went to take some 
clothes to a poor woman recommended for charity by the 

newspaper. I carried the 
parcel and Silvia had the 
newspaper with the initials 
of her name, and the ad¬ 
dress. We went up under 
the roof of a high house, 
through a long corridor 
with many doors. My 
mother knocked at the last 
one and a woman opened 
it; she was a blonde, still 
young but thin. It oc- 
cured to me at once that I 
had seen her somewhere 
before with that same blue 
handkerchief worn on her 
head. 

“Are you the woman 
mentioned in the newspaper as so and so ? ” asked my mother. 
“Yes, Signora, I am.” 

“Well, we have brought you some clothes.” Then the 







THE HEART OF A BOY 


21 


woman began so thank and bless us without end. In the mean¬ 
while, I saw in a corner of the bare, dark room, a boy kneeling 
before a chair with his back turned toward us ; he looked as 
though he were writing, and he was, indeed, writing, with his 
paper on the chair. 

‘ ‘ How can he write in the dark ? ’ ’ While I said this to 
myself, I suddenly recognized the red hair and jean jacket of 
Crossi, the boy with the paralyzed arm, the son of the vegeta¬ 
ble vender. I told it softly to my mother, while the woman 
was putting away the clothes. 

“ Hush,” said my mother. “ Maybe he is ashamed to see 
you because } r ou bestow charity on his mother; do not call 
him.” 

At that moment, Crossi turned around and I felt embar¬ 
rassed ; he smiled, and my mother gave me a push to make me 
run and embrace him. I did so, and he arose to his feet and 
took my hand. Then his mother said : 

“lam here all alone with this boy ; my husband has been 
in America for six years ; besides, I am sick so that I cannot 
go around selling green vegetables and earn a few soldi . I 
have not even a table left, upon which my poor little Luigino 
can do his work. When I had a bench down at the door, he 
could at least write on that; but even that has been taken 
away, and he has not even a little light by which to study 
without ruining his eyes. It is fortunate for me that I can 
send him to school, as the municipality provides him with 
books and copy-books. Poor little Luigino, who would study 
so willingly. Miserable woman that I am. 

My mother gave her the contents of her purse and kissed 
the boy, who almost cried when we left. She did right to tell 
me : “ Look at the poor boy, how he is obliged to work ; and 

you, you have all the comforts and still study seems hard to 
you! Ah, my Enrico, there is more in one day of his work 
than in a year of yours. Such pupils ought to be given the 
Erst prize.” 


22 


the; heart of a boy 


THE SCHOOL 

Yes, dear EnricOy study is hardy as thy mother tells thee. 
Yet , I do not see thee go to school with that resolute mind and 
smiling facey as I would like. Thou art still stubborn ; but, listeny 
think a little how miserable and despicable thy days would be if 
tlwu didst not go to school! At the end of a week thou wouldst 
ask with clasped hands to return again, wearied by annoyance and 
shame, tired of thy new toySy and of thy own existence. Every¬ 
body studies noWy Enrico. Think of the workmen who go to 
school in the evening , after having worked all day; of the women 
and girls of the laboring class } who go to school on Sunday, after 
having worked all week ; of the soldiers who take up their reading 
and writing books after they return tired from their drilling; 
think of the deaf and dumb boys and of the blindy who also 
study; even prisoners learn to read a?id write. Think in the 
morning , when thou goest out } that on that very morning, in thy 
own towny there are thirty thousand boys, going like thyself \ to 
shut themselves in for three hours in order to study. Then again! 
Think of the innumerable crowds of boys who go to school about 
the same hour in all countries. Think of them—in thy imagi¬ 
nation, while they are going—going through village by-ways, 
through noisy streets , along the shores of the sea and of the lakes, 
through the mist or under the burning sun; in little boats , in 
countries where there are canals, on horseback through great 
prairies, in sleighs over the snow, over mountains and hills, 
through woods a 7 id across torrents, up through solitary paths'of 
the mountains; alone , in couples, in groups, in lo?ig files; all with 
books under their arms , clothed in a thousand different costumes, 
speaking a thousa?id different tongues; from the remotest schools 
of Russia, almost lost in the ice, to the remotest schools of A rabia 
shaded with palm trees; millions and millions , all going to learn 
the same things in a hundred different ways. Imagine these vast 
multitudes of boys from hundreds of nations, this immense move¬ 
ment of which you form a part. And k7iow that if this 7novement 
were to cease, humanity would fall back into barbarism. This 
















































































































\ 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


23 


movement is the progress , the hope , the glory of the world . 
Have courage then , thou little soldier of this immense army . 
Thy books are thy weapons , the whole world thy field of battle; and 
the victory is human civilization. Do not be a cowardly soldier , 
raj/ Enrico. Thy Father . 


THE EITTLE PATRIOT OF PADUA 

(MONTHLY STORY.) 

Saturday the 29th. 

No, I will not be a “ cowardly soldier,” but I would go to 
school more willingly if the teacher would tell us a story every 
day like the one he told us this morning. He says he will tell 
us one every month. He will give it to us in writing, and it 
will always be a tale of noble and true acts performed by a 
boy. ‘ ‘The Little Patriot of Padua’ ’ is the title of this. Here 
it is : 

A French steamer left Barcelona, a city in Spain, for 
Genoa. There were on board Frenchmen, Italians, Spaniards, 
and Swiss. There was among the others a boy of eleven, 
apparently quite alone, who kept himself aloof like a savage. 
And no wonder he looked at every one with forbidding eyes. 
Two years previous to this, his father had sold him to the 
master of a company of mountebanks, who after having taught 
him to perform tricks by dint of beatings, kicks and fasting, 
had taken him across France and Spain, abusing him very 
often and never giving him enough to eat. 

Arriving at Barcelona, no longer able to stand the ill-treat¬ 
ments and hunger, reduced to a pitiable state, he had run 
away from his tormenters and had gone to ask protection of 
the Consul of Italy, who moved with pity, had put him on 
board that steamer, giving him a letter to the chief of police in 
Genoa, who was ordered to send him back to the parents who 
had sold him like a beast. 


24 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


The poor boy was ragged and sickly looking. They had 
given him a second-class cabin. All looked at him, some 
questioned him, but he did not answer, and seemed to hate and 
despise everyone. So much privation and so many blows had 
irritated and spoiled him. Three of the passengers, however, 
by insisting with their questions had succeeded in making him 
loosen his tongue, and in a few rough words, a mixture of 
Venetian, Spanish and French, he told his story. Those three 
passengers were not Italians, but they understood him, and 
partly from compassion, more because excited by wine, they 
gave him a few soldi, joking, jesting, and urging him to tell 
them more. Several ladies having entered the salon at that 
moment, two or three of them, for the purpose of making a 
show of themselves, gave him some more money, crying: 
“Take this, take that,” and making the money sound upon 
the table. 

The boy pocketed everything, thanking them in a subdued 
voice in his brusque manner, but with a look for the first time 
smiling and affectionate. Then he climbed up to his berth, 
pulled the curtains, and remained thinking of his own affairs. 
With that money he could enjoy a good meal on board, after 
two years of starvation! He could buy himself a jacket, as 
soon as he landed in Genoa. For two years he had gone 
dressed in rags! He could also take some home, and be re¬ 
ceived by his father and mother a little more humanely than if 
he arrived there penniless. It was a little fortune for him. He 
was thinking of all this and taking comfort in his thoughts be¬ 
hind the curtain of his cabin, while the three passengers were 
talking, seated at the dining table in the middle of the second- 
class salon. They were drinking and talking about their trav¬ 
els and of the countries they had visited, going from one topic 
to another. At last, they began to discuss Italy. One com¬ 
menced to complain about the hotels, another about the rail¬ 
roads; and then, growing warmer, they all began to abuse 
everything. “ One would prefer to travel in Tapland,” said 

















THE HEART OF A BOY 


25 


one; another, “had found in Italy none but swindlers and 
brigands. ’ ’ The third added that Italian officials did not know 
how to read. 

“ An ignorant people, ’’ repeated the first. 

“ A filthy people,” quoth the second. 

“ Rob-” exclaimed the third, meaning to say robbers, 

but could not finish his word. A tempest of soldi and half-lire 
fell upon their heads and shoulders and leaped upon the table 
and floor, making a great noise. All three arose at once, 
looking up, and received another handful of coin upon their 
faces 

‘ ‘ Take back your soldi, ’ * said the boy disdainfully, looking 
out between the curtains of his berth, “ I do not accept alms 
from those who insult my country! ” 


NOVEMBER 

THE CHIMNEY SWEEP 

Tuesday the ist. 

East evening, I went to the girls’ school building, next to 
our own, in order to give the story of the boy from Padua to 
Silvia’s teacher, who wanted to read it. There are seven 
hundred girls in this school! When I arrived, they were just 
coming out, all happy on account of the vacation of All Souls’ 
day, and something beautiful took place before my eyes. In 
front of the door of the school, on the other side of the street, 
a chimney sweep stood, leaning with his head on his arm 
against the wall. He was a very small lad, all black in the 
face, with his bag and scraper, and he was crying and sobbing 
as though his heart would break. Two or three of the girls 
of the second grade approached him and asked: 

“ What is the matter with you? Why do you cry in this 
way ? ’ ’ But he did not answer and kept on crying. 



26 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


“But tell us, why do you weep?” repeated the girls. 
Then he raised his head from his arm, showing the face of a 
baby, and said,weeping: ‘ ‘ I have been in many houses to sweep 
the chimneys and earned thirty soldi; but 
I have lost them, they slipped through a 
hole in my pocket,” and he showed the 
pocket which had a rip in it. He further 
said that he did not dare go home without 
the money. 

‘ ‘ The master will beat me, * ’ he sobbed, 
and again dropped his head on his arm, 
as though he were in deep despair. The 
girls stopped a moment and looked at 
him sorrowfully. In the meanwhile, 
other girls had gathered around him, 
rich and poor, with their satchels on their 
arms. One, who had a blue feather in 
her hat, pulled from her pocket two 
soldi and said: 

‘ ‘ I have nothing but two soldi, let us 
make a collection.” 

“ I also have two soldi,” said another 
dressed in red, “ we will be able to find thirty among all of 
us,” and they began to collect, calling aloud: “Amalia! 
Euigia! Annina! A soldo! Who has any soldi? Here are 
the soldi.” 

Some of them had soldi with which to buy flowers and 
writing books, and they gave them. Others, smaller ones, gave 
some centesimi, and the one with the blue feather collected 
everything and counted in a loud voice: 

“ Eight, ten, fifteen ; ” but more was needed. Then, one of 
the largest of them appeared; she looked like a young lady, 
and gave a half-lira, and all*began to cheer her. Still five 
soldi were lacking. 

“Now some of the fourth grade are coming, and they have 




THE HEART OF A BOY 


27 


some,” said one. Those of the fourth class came, and the 
soldi fell down in a shower. They all hurried forward eagerly. 
It was a fine sight to see that poor chimney sweep in the midst 
of those girls, dressed in so many different colors; it looked 
like a whirl of feathers, ribbons and girls. The thirty soldi 
had been collected, and more were giving; the little ones who 
had no money would make their way among the larger ones, 
throwing him their bouquets of flowers in order that they 
might give something. All of a sudden the janitress came out 
crying: 

‘ ‘ The signora directress! ’ ’ The girls scampered away on 
all sides like a flock of birds, and, at that moment, the little 
chimney sweep was seen standing alone in the middle of the 
street, wiping his eyes. He was happy with his hands full of 
money, and he had in the button holes of his jacket, in his 
pockets, and on his hat, bouquets of flowers, and there were 
some on the ground at his feet. 


AEE-SOUES DAY 


Wednesday the 2d. 

This day is consecrated to commemorate the dead. Dost thou 
know , Enrico , to whose death you boys should dedicate a thought 
on this dayf To those'who have died for you—for boys and for 
all children. How many have died , and how many are continu¬ 
ally dying! Hast thou ever thought how many fathers have 
worn out their lives by toiling? How many mothers have de¬ 
scended into their graves before their time , used up by privation 
to which they had condemned themselves for the sake of sustain¬ 
ing their childrenf Dost thou know how many men put a knife 
in their hearts , in despair , rather than see their children in mis¬ 
ery, and how many women drown themselves , or die of grief \ or 
go insane because they have lost a childf Think of all these dead 



28 


THE HEART OE A BOY 


ones on this very day, Enrico. Think, too, of the many school¬ 
mistresses who have died young, who were consumed by the 
fatigues of the school, for the love of children, whom they had 
not the heart to leave. Think of the many physicians who 
have died from contagious diseases, having courageously sac¬ 
rificed themselves to cure children. Think, too, of all those 
who have perished in shipwrecks, in fires, in times of famine, 
who in the supreme moment of danger have yielded to infancy the 
last morsel of bread, the last hope of escape, the last place of 
safety, and who expire, glad of their sacrifice, since they have 
saved the life of a little innocent. They are innumerable, En¬ 
rico. Every cemetery contains hundreds of these sainted beings. 
If they could rise a moment from their graves, they would cry the 
name of some child for whom they sacrificed the joys of youth, the 
peace of old age, all affection, their intelligence, their life; young 
mothers of twenty, men in the bloom of youth, octogenarians, old 
women, young men; heroic and obscure martyrs to infancy; so 
many who were great and noble, that the earth does not produce 
flowers enough to cover their graves. Think to-day with grati¬ 
tude of those dead, and thou wilt be better and more affectionate 
to those who live and toil for thee, dear fortunate son, who in the 
‘ ‘ Day of the Dead ’ ’ hast no one for whom to weep. 

Thy Mother , 


MY FRIEND GARRONE 

Friday the 4th. 

There were only two days of vacation, and yet it seems to 
me such a long time since I have seen Garrone. The more I 
know him, the better I like him, and it is so with all the others 
except those who are overbearing and are not friendly toward 
him, because he does not allow them to indulge their oppres¬ 
sion. Every time any one of them raises his hand over a little 
fellow the little fellow cries: “Garrone!” and the big boy 
does not strike him any more. His father is an engineer on 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


the railroad. He commenced late to go to school because he 
was ill for two years. He is the tallest and strongest of the 
class; he can raise a bench with one hand. He eats all the 
time. He is good ; one may ask anything of him, chalk, • 
rubber, paper, or pen-knife ; he lends or gives everything away, 
and he never whispers or laughs in school. He keeps quiet on 
his bench,—which is rather narrow for him,—with his back 
bent and his head bowed. When I look at him, he smiles with 
his eyes half closed as though he would say: “Well, Enrico, 
are we friends? ’’ But he makes me laugh. Tall and big as 
he is, he wears a jacket, trousers, sleeves, everything too small 
for him ; a hat that will hardly set on his head, thick shoes, a 
cravat tied like a string around his neck, and he has liis hair 
clipped. Poor Garrone, to look into his face is to like him. 
All the little ones like to sit near him. He knows his arith¬ 
metic well. He carries his books in a pile bound with a strap of 
red leather. He has a knife with mother-of-pearl handle which 
he found last year in the field for military manoeuvring, and 
once he cut his finger to the bone with it; but no one at school 
knew it and he said nothing at home for fear he might frighten 
his parents. He takes with good nature anything told him in 
jest and he is never offended; but woe to the one who tells him: 
“ it isn’t true ! ” When he affirms a thing, fire flashes from 
his eyes, and he hammers upon the desk with his fist hard 
enough to split it. Saturday morning, he gave a soldo to a boy 
of the first upper, who was in the street, because some one had 
stolen the boy’s soldo and he could not buy himself a copy-book. 
Garrone has been working for three days, making a pen orna¬ 
mentation around an eight-page letter for the “Saint’s Day ” 
of his mother, who often comes to take him home, and who is 
tall and stout like him, and looks rather pleasant. The teacher 
always notices Garrone and every time he comes by him puts 
his hand on his head. I am very fond of him. I am sure that 
he would risk his life to save a companion, that he would allow 
himself to be killed in order to defend him ; one can see 


30 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


this so clearly in his eyes ; and, although it seems as though he 
always grumbles with his big voice, it is unquestionably a voice 
which comes from a kindly heart. 

THE CHARCOAL MAN AND THE GENTLEMAN 

Monday the jth. 

Garrone would never have said what Carlo Nobis said yes¬ 
terday morning to Betti. Carlo Nobis is vain because his 
father is a grand signor, a tall gentleman who always wears a 
full black beard, very serious looking, and who comes nearly 
every day to accompany his son. Yesterday morning, Nobis 
quarreled with Betti, one of the smallest boys, the son of a 
charcoal man; and not knowing how to answer him, because 
he was in the wrong, he said to him in a loud voice: “ Your 
father is a worthless raggedman.” Betti grew red to the 
roots of his hair and said nothing, but tears came to his eyes, 
and when he went home he repeated those words to his father; 
and, behold, the charcoal man, a little fellow, all black, ap¬ 
peared at the school in the afternoon with the lad, in order to 
make his complaint to the teacher. While he was telling his 
grievance to the master, every one was quiet. The father of 
Nobis, who was taking off his son’s overcoat on the threshold 
of the door, as he usually does, hearing his name pronounced, 
entered and asked an explanation. The master answered: 
“ It is this workman who comes here to complain because your 
son Carlo said to his boy ‘ Your father is a worthless ragged 
man.’ ” 

Nobis’ father frowned and blushed a little and then asked 
his son, ‘ 1 Did you say those words ? ’ ’ Carlo standing in front 
of little Betti in the middle of the school room, with drooping 
head, did not answer. 

Then his father took him by the arm and pushed him further 
ahead, beside Betti, so that the two almost touched each other, 
and said: “ Beg his pardon.” 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


31 


The charcoal man tried to interfere, saying “ No, no/' but 
the gentleman paid no heed, and repeated to his son, ‘ ‘ Beg his 
pardon. 

“Repeat my words: ‘ I beg to apologize for the insulting, 
senseless and ignoble words which I said against your father, 
whose hand my father feels honored to grasp. ” 

The charcoal man made a gesture as if he would say, “.I 
will not,” but the gentleman paid no heed, and his son said 
slowly, with a tremor in his voice, without raising his eyes 

from the floor: “ I beg to apologize-for the insulting- 

senseless-and ignoble words which I said against your 

father, whose hand my father feels himself honored to grasp.” 

Then the gentleman reached his hand to the charcoal man, 
who grasped it with force: and then suddenly pushed his son 
into the arms of Carl Nobis. 

“Do me the favor to put them next to each other,” said 
the gentleman to the teacher. The teacher placed Betti 
in Nobis’ bench, and when he saw them in their places, the 
father of Nobis made a bow and left. 

The charcoal man remained a few moments, standing there 
in thought, looking at both boys; then he approached the 
bench, looked at Nobis with an expression of affection and re¬ 
gard, as if he wished to say something, but said nothing. He 
stretched out his hand as if to give him a caress, but dared 
not, and only stroked his brow with his large hand, then 
started for the door, turning once more to look at him, and 
departed. 

“ Remember well what you have seen, boys,” said the 
teacher; “ this is the finest lesson of the year.” 


my brother’s school mistress 

Thursday the loth 

The son of the charcoal man was a pupil of Mistress Delcati. 
who came to-day to see my sick brother. She made us laugh by 



82 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


telling that the mother of that boy two years ago brought to her 
home an armful of charcoal, to thank her because she had given 
a medal to her son. The poor woman persisted in leaving it 
and almost cried when she had to return home with her apron 
full. The mistress also told of another good woman, who 
brought her a very large bouquet of flowers inside of which 
there was a quantity of soldi. She amused us a great deal by 
telling us stories, and my brother took his medicine which be¬ 
fore he did not want to swallow. How much patience they 
must have with those boys of the first grade, all without 
teeth like the old men, who cannot pronounce either the r’s or 
the s’s. One coughs, another has the nose bleed, and another 
loses his shoes under the bench. This one cries, because he 
has pricked himself with a pen, and that one weeps, because 
he has bought copy-book number two instead of number one. 
Fifty all in one class, who know nothing, with those little hands 
like butter, who have to be taught to read and write! They 
carry in their pockets pieces of licorice, sugar, buttons, brick 
dust, every kind of small articles, and the teacher is obliged 
to go through their pockets, but they hide these things even 
inside their shoes. They pay no attention; if a fly enters 
through the window, it puts them all in confusion. In sum¬ 
mer, they carry horn-bugs to school, which fly around and fall 
into the ink-stands and stain the copy-books with ink. The 
mistress, who plays the part of mother toward them, must help 
them to dress, bandage the fingers that are pricked, pick up 
the caps that fall, take heed that they do not exchange their 
coats, or else they indulge in cat-calls and shrieks. Poor 
school mistress, and besides some of the mothers will go and 
complain: “How is it, madam, that my child has lost his 
pen?” “How is it that mine does not learn anything?” 
“ Why don’t you give the prize to my boy, who knows so 
much ? ” “ Why don’t you have the nail which has torn the 

trousers of my Piero taken out of the bench ? ’ ’ 

At times, my brother’s mistress gets angry at the boys, and 


t 













































































■ 







- 






































































* 


f 


» 




































THE HEART OF A BOY 


33 


when she can endure it no longer, she bites her finger in order 
not to give a blow. She loses her patience and then she 
repents, caresses the child who has been scolded, sends the 
little rogue out of the school, and then stops her own tears. 
She gets angry with the parents, who, in order to punish their 
children, compel them to fast. Mistress Delcati is young and 
tall, has a dark complexion, and dresses well. She is so restless 
and nervous that she is affected by a mere trifle. She speaks 
with a great deal of tenderness. 

“But at least the children are attached to you?” my 
mother asked. “Some are,” she answered, “ but when the 
year is over, the greater part do not look at me any more. 
When they are with the male teachers they are ashamed to 
have been with a school mistress. After two years of cares, 
after we have loved a child so much, it is sad to be separated 
from him; we say: ‘ Oh, I am sure of that one, he will love me. ’ 
But, the vacation over, we return to school, we run to meet 
him’: ‘ Oh, my child, my child ! ’ and he turns his head the 
other way/’ At this point, the mistress was interrupted. 

“ But you will not do this, little fellow? ” she said ; then arose 
with her eyes full of tears and kissed my brother, “ You will 
not turn your head the other way, will you? You will not 
deny your poor old friend?’ ’ 

MY MOTHER 

In the presence of thy brother* s preceptress thou hast failed to 
respect thy mother! Let this not happen again, my Enrico , 
never again! Thy irreverent words entered my heart like a steel 
blade. I was thinking of thy mother when, years ago, she stood 
a whole night bent over thy little bed to watch for thy breath, cry¬ 
ing with anguish, and shutting her teeth in terror because she 
thought she was going to lose thee, and I was afraid she would 
lose her mind; and I Jelt a sense of reproof for thee. Thou hast 
offended thy mother! Thy mother, who would give a year of 


34 the heart of a boy 

happiness to spare thee an hour of sorrow, who would ask alms 
for thee, who would allow herself to be killed to save thy life / 
Listen, Enrico, fix this thought well in thy mind. Remember that 
destiny has many troubles in store for thee. The greatest trouble 
will come the day when thou wilt lose thy mother. A thousand 
times, Enrico, when thou wilt be a man, strong, and hardened by 
all the struggles of life, thou wilt be oppressed by a great desire to 



hear again for one moment thy mother's voice, to see again her 
open arms ready to receive thee sobbing like a poor child without 
protection and without comfort. Then thou wilt remember all 
the bitterness thou hast caused her, and with what remoise wilt 
thou pay for all, thou unhappy creature! Do not hope for any 
serenity in thy life, if thou hast saddened thy mother. Thou wilt 
repent, thou wilt ask her pardon, thou wilt venerate her memory, 
all in vain, thy conscience will not grant thee peace. The sweet and 
good image will always have for thee an expression of sadness and 








THE HEART OF A BOY 


35 


reproach which will torture thy soul. Oh , Enrico , beware! This 
is the most sacred of human affections; woe to him who tramples 
upon it! The assassin who respects his mother has still something 
honest and chivalrous in his heart. The most famous of men 
if he sadden and offend her is a vile wretch. Nevermore let a 
harsh word proceed from thy mouth for the one who gave thee 
life. Arid, if another such word should escape thee , let it not be 
the fear of thy father but the impulse of thy soul which will throw 
thee at herfeet to supplicate her , that with a kiss of forgiveness 
she may erase from thy forehead the stain of ingratitude. I love 
thee , my son; thou art the dearest hope of my life; but I would 
rather see thee dead than ungrateful to thy mother. Go, andfor 
a little time do not offer me any of thy caresses. I could not ex¬ 
change them in my heart. Thy Father. 


MY COMPAriON CORETTI 

Sunday the ijth. 

My father has forgiven me, but still I remain somewhat 
sad. My mother sent me to take a walk through the Corso, 
with the janitor’s oldest son. Half way through, passing 
near a truck standing before a shop, somebody called me. I 
turned around; it was Coretti, my schoolmate, all in a perspira¬ 
tion, with his chocolate colored knitted jacket and his catskin 
cap, but merry, and carrying a load of wood on his shoulders. 
A man standing on the truck handed him an armful of ^ood 
at a time, which he would take and carry into his father’s 
shop, where he would pile it up in a great hurry. 

“ What are you doing, Coretti ? ” I asked. 

“Don’t you see?’’ he answered, holding out his arms to 
take the wood. “ I go over my lesson. ” 

I laughed, but he was speaking in earnest, and, having 
taken his armful of wood, began saying while running: “ The 
conjugation of the verb consists in its variations , agreeing in num¬ 
ber and person - 



36 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


And then throwing down the wood and piling it up*. ‘ Ac¬ 
cording to the time - according to the time to which the action 

refers -’ * 

It was our grammar lesson for the next day. ‘ ‘ What 

would you have me do ? ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ I make the most of my 
time. My father has gone away on account of his business. 
My mother is ill. I have to unload the wood. In the mean¬ 
while I go over my grammar; it is a difficult lesson to-day. I 
do not succeed in hammering it into my head. My father will 
be here at seven to give you the soldi,” he then said to the 
the truckman. 

The truck moved away. ‘ ‘ Go into the shop for a mo¬ 
ment,” said Coretti. I entered. It was a large room full of 
piles of wood and fagots, with a school desk on one side. 

“ To-day is a day of rush, I assure you,” said Coretti. “ I 
have to do my work by fits and starts. I was writing about 
the prepositions, and some one came to buy. I started to 
write again, and the truck came. I have already taken two 
trips to the wood market in the Piazza Venezia this morning. 
I am so tired I can hardly stand on my feet and my hands are 
all swollen; I would be in a fine fix, indeed, if I had to do my 
drawing task.” As he spoke he began sweeping up the 
dry leaves and little sticks which had fallen on the brick pave¬ 
ment. 

“But where do you do your work?” I asked Coretti. 

‘ ‘ Surely not here ? ’ ’ 

“ Come and see,” and he took me into a little room behind 
the shop, which was used as a kitchen and dining room, with 
a table in the corner where he had all his books and writing 
material and the beginning of his lesson. “ By the way,” he 
said, “ I have left out the second answer: ‘ With leather one 
makes shoes , belts > now I have it-‘ valisesd And tak¬ 

ing his pen, he started to write in his beautiful hand-writing. 

‘ ‘ Is any one here ? ’ ’ some one cried at that moment from 
the shop. It was a woman who came to buy some fagots. 




* 

















































* 


























































' 










































. 






































THE HEART OF A BOY 


37 


“ Here I am,” answered Coretti, and sprang from his place 
to weigh the fagots. He took the soldi, ran into the corner to 
register the sale in a copy-book, and returned to his work, say¬ 
ing: “ Let’s see if I can finish this paragraph, ” and he wrote: 
“ Traveling bags and knapsacks for soldiers.” “Ah,” he said, 
” My poor coffee is boiling over,” and he ran to the stove to 
take the coffee-pot from the fire. “ It is the coffee for mamma,” 
said he. “I had to learn to make coffee. Wait a moment, 
and we will take it to her, so that she may see you; it will 

give her pleasure. She has been sick in bed for seven days- 

Confound it! I always scald my fingers with that coffee pot. 
What can I add after ‘ knapsacksfo? soldiers?' I must add 
something more, and I cannot think of it. Come to mamma.” 

He opened the door and we entered the room. There was 
the mother of Coretti in a large bed, with a white handkerchief 
tied around her head. 

“Here is the coffee, mamma,” said Coretti, handing her 
the cup. “ This is my schoolmate.” 

“Oh, what a fine signorino,” said the woman, “ you have 
come to see the sick, isn’t it so ? ” 

In the meantime, Coretti had fixed the pillows behind his 
mother's shoulders, and had put up the blankets of the bed, and 
brightened the fire, and driven the cat away from the bureau 
drawers. 

“ Is there anything more you wish, mamma?” he asked, 
and took away the cup. “ Did you take the two spoonfuls ot 
syrup? When it is gone, I will go to the apothecary for 
more. The wood has been unloaded. At four o’clock I will 
put the meat on the fire, as you have told me. When the but¬ 
ter woman goes by, I will give her the eight soldi. Everything 
will go well, do not fear.” 

‘ ‘ Thanks, my son, ” answered the woman. ‘ * My poor son! 
he thinks of everything. ’ ’ 

She asked me to take a piece of sugar, and then Corretti 
showed me a little picture, a photograph of his father dressed 


38 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


like a soldier with the medal of valor that he had won in the 
battle of ’66, in the army of Prince Humbert. His son looks 
like him, with those lively eyes and that merry smile. 

“I have found another,” said Coretti, and he added in his 
copy-book, “ One can make harnesses .” “The balance I will 
do this evening; I will sit up late. How happy you are to 
have all your time to study; and then you can go promenading 
besides.” 

He is always jolly. Re-entering the shop, he began to chop 
wood upon a horse and sawed it in halves, saying: “ It is like 
gymnastics, quite different from the ‘ Throw your arms for¬ 
ward. ’ I want my father to find all this wood sawed when he 
returns and then he will be satisfied. The worst of it is that 
after I have sawed the wood, I make some t’s and l’s which 
look like serpents ’ as the teacher says;but what else can I do ? 
I will tell him that I had to move my arms about. What I 
most care for is that mamma may soon get well. Now she is 
better, thank heaven! I shall study the grammar tomorrow 
morning when the cock crows. Oh, here comes the wagon with 
the logs. At work again! ’ * 

A wagon loaded with logs stopped in front of the shop. 
Coretti ran out to speak to the man and then came back. 
“ Now, my comrade, I cannot keep you any longer; farewell 
until tomorrow. You did well to come and see me. Pleasant 
walk to you, you lucky fellow! ” 

He shook my hand and ran to take the first log and began 
running between the wagon and the shop, with his face as fresh 
as a rose under that cat-skin cap, and so bright that it was a 
pleasure to look at him. 

“ L,ucky fellow! ” he said to me. Oh, good Coretti, no, it 
is you who are fortunate; you, because you study and work 
more than I do, because you are more useful to your father 
and mother, because you are better than myself, a hundred 
times better, and more brave than I am, my dear schoolmate. 





































■ 

' 































































THE HEART OF A BOY 


39 


THE PRINCIPAL, OF THE SCHOOE 

Friday the 18th. 

Coretti was happy this morning because his master of the 
second elementary came to assist with the work of the monthly 
examination; Coatti is his name, a big man with thick crisp 
hair, a black beard, black eyes, and a voice that thunders. He 
always threatens to take the boys by the neck to the police 
station, and makes all sorts of frightful faces, but he never 
punishes any one; on the contrary, he always laughs in his 
sleeve. With Coatti, there are eight more masters, including 
a substitute, a little fellow who looks like a youth. There is a 
master of the fourth class, who is muffled up in a large woolen 
scarf, and is always complaining about his pains. He took this 
illness when he was master in a country school where the walls 
were very damp. Another master of the fourth class is an old 
man with white hair and beard, who has been a teacher of the 
blind. There is one who is always well dressed, with eye¬ 
glasses and blonde mustache; he is called “ The Little Lawyer,” 
because while he was teaching he took a lawyer’s diploma, 
and also got up a book to teach how to read and write. The 
one who teaches us gymnastics is like a soldier. He has been 
with Garibaldi and has on his neck the scar of a sabre wound 
that he got at the battle of Milazzo. Then comes the principal; 
tall, bald headed, with a grey beard which comes down over 
his chest. He has golden eye-glasses, and is all dressed in 
black and buttoned up to the chin ; he is always so good to the 
boys. When they enter his office trembling, having been sent 
there for reproof, he does not scold them but takes them by the 
hand and gives so many good reasons why they should not 
have done what they did, why they must repent and promise 
to be good, and he speaks in such a kind manner and with such 
a sweet voice that they all leave him with red eyes; they are 
more confused than if they had been punished. Poor principal, 
he is always the first one at his place in the morning ; he waits 


40 THE heart of a boy 

for the teachers and listens to the parents, and when the teachers 
have started home, he keeps on the lookout to see that none of 
the children fall under the carriages, and that they do not stop 
in the street to play or to fill their satchels with sand and stones, 
and every time he appears at the corner of a street, tall and 
dark as he is, a crowd of boys scamper in all directions, stopping 
suddenly the games with marbles and pens, and he threatens 
with his index finger at a distance with a loving and sad air. ‘ ‘No 
one has ever seen him laugh,” says my mother, ” since his son 
died. ’ ’ The son was a volunteer in the army, and the principal 
always keeps his portrait before him upon the desk in his room. 
He wanted to leave the school after his son’s death, and he 
wrote his resignation to the municipality and kept it constantly 
on his desk, waiting from day to day to send it, because he was 
sorry to leave the children. The other day, he seemed to be 
decided, and my father, who was with him in the directors’ 
room, was saying to him : “What a pity that you go, signor 
principal,” when a man entered to have a boy enrolled, who 
was coming from another school to ours because his parents had 
moved. When he looked at that boy, the principal seemed 
surprised. He looked at him for a moment and then at the 
portrait which he keeps on his desk and then at the boy again, 
and, drawing him between his knees, he made him raise his 
face. That boy resembled perfectly his own lost son. The 
principal said “ All right,” wrote the name, and the father left. 
He remained pensive. “ What a pity that you should go,” 
repeated my father. The principal took his resignation, tore it 
to pieces, and said: “ I shall remain ! ” 


THE SOLDIERS 

Tuesday the 22a. 

His son was a volunteer in the army when he died, and 
this is the reason the principal always goes to the Corso to see 
the soldiers pass. When we came out of school yesterday, an 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


41 


infantry regiment was passing, and fifty boys began to jump 
around the band, singing and keeping time with their rulers 
on their satchels and portfolios. We stood in a group on the 
sidewalk, looking; Garrone, squeezed in clothes too small for 
him, and biting a large loaf of bread; 

Votini, the well dressed one, who is 
always picking the hair from his 
clothes; Precossi, the son of the black¬ 
smith, wearing his father’s jacket; the 
Calabrian boy; “the kittle Mason”; 

Crossi, with his red hair; Franti, with 
his tough face, and Robetti, the son oi 
an artillery captain, the one who saved 
the boy from the omnibus and who 
now walks on crutches. Franti 
laughed in the face of a soldier who 
was limping. Suddenly he felt a 
man’s hand on his shoulder. He 
turned around; it was the principal. 

“Lookhere” said the principal; “to 
jest at a soldier when he is in the 
ranks and can neither revenge him¬ 
self nor answer is like insulting a man 
when he is bound up; it is a cowardly act.” 

Franti disappeared. The soldiers were passing four by 
four, perspiring and covered with dust, and their guns were 
gleaming in the sun. “You must always wish well to the 
soldiers, boys,” said the principal. “ They are our defenders; 
they would die for us, if to-morrow a foreign army should 
threaten our country. They are also boys—a few years older 
than you are, and they also go to school, and there are among 
them poor and rich people, as among yourselves. They come 
from all parts of Italy. Look at them; one can almost recog¬ 
nize them from their faces: the Sicilians, the Sardinians, the 
Neapolitans, the Lombards. This is an old regiment, one of 




42 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


those which fought in 1848. The soldiers are no longer the 
same, but the flag is. How many died for our country around 
that flag twenty years before you were born ! ’ ’ 

“ Here it comes, ” said Garrone. And, in fact, one could 
see at a little distance the flag which came first above the 
heads of the soldiers. The principal said: “ Boys, make the 
pupil’s salute with the hand to the forehead when the tricolor 
passes. ’ ’ 

The flag, carried by an officer, passed in front of us; it was 
all torn and faded, but there were medals hanging on the 
staff. We put our hands to our foreheads all together. The 
officer looked at us, smiled, and returned the salute with his 
hand. 

“ Good, boys! ” said a man behind us. We turned to look 
and saw an old man who had in the buttonhole of his coat the 
blue ribbon of the Crimean campaign; a pensioned officer. 
“ Bravo! ” he said; “ you have done a noble act,” 

In the meanwhile, the band turned at the end of the Corso, 
surrounded by a crowd of boys, and a hundred merry shouts 
accompanied the blast of the trumpets like a war cry. 
“Bravo!” repeated the old officer. “He who respects the 
flag when he is small, will know how to defend it when he is 
grown up.” 


THE PROTECTOR OF NELU 

Wednesday the 23rd. 

Poor Nelli was also looking at the soldiers yesterday—poor 
little hunchback—with a look as though he were saying: “ I 
shall never be a soldier!” He is good and studious, but he is 
thin and sickly looking and breathes with a good deal of diffi¬ 
culty. He wears a long black shining linen apron. His mother 
is a little blonde lady, dressed in black. She always calls for 
him when the school is over; as, in the confusion, he would not 
go out with the other boys, and she caresses him. The first 































































































































































































































































































































































































































• ' 


























































































the heart op a boy 


43 


days of school, as he has the misfortune to be hunchbacked, 
many of the boys laughed at him and beat him upon the back 
with their satchels; but he never turned around, and said noth- 
ing to his mother about it, because he did not wish to cause 
her the pain of knowing that her son was the laughing 
stock of his companions. When they derided him, he would 
cry silently, leaning his forehead on the desk. 

But this morning, Garrone sprang up and said: “ If any 
one touches Nelli, I will give him such a blow that he will spin 
three times around.” 

Franti paid no attention, and he received a blow which made 
him reel. Since that time no one has touched Nelli. The 
teacher placed Garrone near him, upon the same bench, and 
they have become fast friends. Nelli is very mucn devoted to 
Garrone; as soon as he enters the school room, he looks where 
Garrone sits, and he never goes away without saying: “ Good 
bye, Garrone,’’ and Garrone does the same with him. When 
Nelli drops his pen or book under the bench, Garrone at once 
bends down and hands it to him. He also helps him to put 
his things in the satchel and to put on his overcoat. Because 
of this, Nelli likes him and looks at him constantly, and when 
the master praises Garrone, Nelli is happy 

Nelli must at last have told his mother everything about 
the ridicule which he suffered those first days, and also about 
the companion who took his part and of whom he has grown 
fond. Here is what happened this morning. The teacher 
sent me to take the programme of the lesson to the principal 
half an hour before the time for school to close, and I was in 
the office when a blonde lady, dressed in black, entered. It 
was Nelli’s mother, and she said: “ Signor principal, is there 
a boy in my son’s class by the name of Garrone ? ” 

“ There is,” answered the principal. 

‘ ‘ Will you have the kindness to send for him for a mo¬ 
ment, as I wish to speak to him ? ’ ’ 

The principal called the beadle and sent him into the class; 


44 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


and, after a minute, Garrone, with his thick, crisp hair, ap¬ 
peared at the door, looking as though he were amazed. As 
soon as she saw him, the lady went to meet him, threw her 



hands on his shoulders and kissed him many times on the fore¬ 
head, saying: “ You are Garrone, the friend of my child, the 
protector of my dear son; it is you, dear boy, it is you ! ” 
Then she searched hastily in her purse and in her pockets, and, 
not finding anything, she detached a chain with a little cross, 
from her neck, and said: “Take it, wear it as a memento, 
dear boy, in memory of Nelli’s mother who thanks you and 
embraces you.” 


THE FIRST OF THE CEASS 

Garrone has won the affection of every one and Derossi the 
admiration. Derossi has won the first medal and will always 









THE HEART OF A BOY 


45 


be the first: This year there is no one who is able to compete 
with him. The boys all recognize his superiority in all the dif¬ 
ferent branches. He is the first in arithmetic, in grammar, in 
composition, and in drawing. He understands everything at 
a glance; has a marvelous memory; succeeds in everything 
without making any effort. It seems as though study were 
mere play for him. The teacher told him yesterday: “God 
has endowed you very generously; you must not waste what 
has been bestowed upon you. ’ ’ Besides all this, he is the tallest 
and handsomest boy of the class, with a large crown of blonde 
curls. He is so nimble that he can jump over the bench by 
laying one hand upon it, and he knows how to fence. He is 
the son of a merchant, and always dresses in blue clothes with 
gilt buttons on them. He is twelve years old, always jolly, 
and he is polite to every one, and tries to help all the other 
boys at the time of examination, and no one has ever dared to 
play a trick upon him or call him a bad name. Only Nobis 
and Franti look at him askance. Votini looks at him with 
envy, but he does not even notice it. They all smile at him 
and take him by the hand when he comes around in his grace¬ 
ful way. He gives away illustrated newspapers and drawings 
—everything which they give him at home. He has drawn 
a geographical map of Calabria for the little Calabrian boy. 
He is like a grand signor and shows no favoritism. 

It is impossible not to envy him and not to feel beneath 
him in everything. I envy him myself, like Votini. I expe¬ 
rience a certain bitterness and spitefulness against him, some¬ 
times when I am striving to do my work at home, and think 
at that hour he has already done his correctly and without 
fatigue. But then, when I return to school and see him so 
handsome, smiling, and triumphant, and hear him answer all 
the questions put to him, in a frank, assured way, and see how 
polite he is to every one, and how all look at him, then all the 
bitterness, all the spite goes out of my heart, and I feel 
ashamed of having felt such emotions. I would like to be near 


46 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


him always; I would like to go through all the classes with 
him; his presence, his voice gives me courage, and I feel a 
desire to work. 

The teacher has given him the monthly story to copy, 
which will be read to-morrow. It is “ The Little Vidette of 
Lombardy. ’ ’ When he was copying it this morning he seemed 
moved by that heroic deed. His face was all aflame, his eyes 
were full of tears, and his mouth trembled. I was watching 
him; how handsome and noble he looked? With what pleas¬ 
ure would I have told him frankly to his face: “ Derossi, you 
have worked more than I have. You are a man compared 
to me, and I respect and admire you.” 


THE EITTEE VIDETTE OF EOMDARDY 

(MONTHLY STORY) 

Saturday the 26 th . 



In the year 1859, during the war 
for the liberation of Lombardy—a 
- few days before the battle of Solfe- 
rino and San Martino, won by the 
French and the Italians, united 
against the Austrians—on a beauti¬ 
ful morning in the month of June a 
little troop of cavalry of Saluzzo was moving slowly through a 
solitary path, toward the enemy, reconnoitering the country as 






THE HEART OF A BOY 


47 


they went. The troop was commanded by an officer and a 
sergeant, and all spied into the distance before them with eager 
eyes, silent, expecting every moment to see the white uniforms 
of the advance post of the enemy shimmering through the trees. 
They came to a hut surrounded by ash trees, in front of which 
was a boy about twelve years old. standing alone, removing 
the bark from a small branch with a knife. From the window 
of the house floated a large tricolored flag, but no one was 
inside. Having hoisted the flag, all had run away, fearing 
the Austrians. As soon as the boy saw the cavalrymen, he 
threw away his stick and took off his hat. He was a fine- 
looking lad with a brave face, large blue eyes, and long blonde 
hair. He was in his shirt sleeves and his shirt was unfastened, 
showing his bare chest. 

“ What are you doing here? ” asked the officer, stopping 
his horse. “ Why did you not run away with your family ? ” 

“ I have no family,” answered the boy. “lama found¬ 
ling. I work a little for every one, and I remained here to 
see the war.” 

“ Have you seen the Austrians pass? ” 

“ Not for the last three days.” 

The officer sat thinking a moment, then dismounted from 
his horse; and, leaving the soldiers turned toward the foe, he 

entered the house and went up on the roof-The house was 

low and from the roof only a little stretch of the country could 
be seen. “ It is necessary to climb the trees,” said the officer, 
and came down. Just in front of the yard there was a lofty, 
slender ash tree, which was rocking its top in the sky. The 
officer stood lost in thought for a moment, looking now at the 
tree, now at the soldiers; then, all of a sudden, he asked the 
boy: 

“ Have you good eyesight, you rag-a-muffin? ” 

“ I ? ” answered the boy. “ I can see a sparrow a mile dis¬ 
tant.” 

‘ ‘ Can you climb to the top of that tree ? ’ * 



48 


THE HEART OF A BQY 


“ I can do that in a minute.” 

“ And could you tell me what you see down below from the 
top, whether there are any Austrian soldiers, clouds of dust, 
guns glimmering, or any horses on that side? ” 

‘'Surely, I could.” 

“What do you want me to pay you for this service ? 99 

“What do I want?” said the boy smiling; “nothing, of 

course-If the Austrians asked me, I would not do it at all 

-but for our own people-1 am a Lombard! ’ ’ 

“ Well, then, climb up.” 

“ Wait just a moment for me to take off my shoes.” 

He took off his shoes, tightened the strap around his trous¬ 
ers, threw his hat on the grass, and clasped the trunk of the 
ash tree. 

“ But, look out! ” exclaimed the officer, making a gesture 
as if to hold him back, as though seized with a sudden fear. 
The boy turned around to look at him with his fine blue eyes, 
as if to question him. 

“ Never mind,” said the officer; “ go up.” 

The boy went up like a cat. “ Look in front of you ! 99 cried 
the officer to the soldiers. 

In a few moments, the boy was at the top of the tree, with 
his legs around the trunk among the leaves, but with his breast 
uncovered, and the sun shining on his blonde head made it look 
like gold. The officer could hardly see him, he looked so small 
from the ground. 

“ Look straight in the distance,” cried the officer. 

The boy, in order to see better, took his right hand from the 
tree and put it over his forehead. 

‘ ‘ What do you see ? ’ ’ asked the officer. 

The boy bent his head toward him, and, making a speaking 
tube of his hand, answered : ‘ ‘ Two men on horseback on the 
white road.” 

“ What distance from here ? ” 

“ Half a mile.” 





THE HEART OF A BOY 


49 


‘ ‘ Do they move ? * ’ 

“ They are standing still.” 

“ What else do you see,” after a moment’s silence, “ Look 
to your right. ’ ’ 

Then he said : ‘ ‘ Among the trees near the cemetery, there 
is something which glitters like bayonets. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Do you see any people ? ’ ’ 

“ No, they must be hidden under the wheat.” 

At that moment, the sharp whiz of a bullet passed high 
through the air and died away, far off, behind the house. 

“Come down, boy,” cried the officer, “They have seen 

you. I do not want anything more, come down.” 

“Iam not afraid,” answered the boy. 

“ Come down,” repeated the officer. “ What else do you see 
at your left ? ” • 

‘ ‘ At the left ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, at the left.” 

The boy pushed his head to the left, and another whiz, 
sharper and lower than the first, cut through the air. The boy 
shook all over, “Confound them!” he exclaimed. “They 
are aiming at me.” The bullet had passed very near him. 

‘ ‘ Down ! ’ ’ cried the officer in an imperious and irritated 

way. 

“ I will come down directly. The tree, however, will pro¬ 
tect me, do not fear. To the left, you wish to know what I 
can see ? ” 

“ To the left,” answered the officer ; “ but, come down.” 

“To the left,” said the boy, turning his head that way, 
“Where there is a chapel, it seems as though I can see 

A third raging whiz was heard and almost at the same time, 
the boy was seen coming down, holding for a moment to the 
trunk and to the branches, and then falling down, head first, 
with open arms. 

“Curse them ! ” cried the officer, running to him. 

The boy struck the ground with his back and lay there 



50 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


stretched out with his arms open ; a stream of blood was flow¬ 
ing from his left side. The sergeant and tw T o soldiers jumped 
from their horses ; the officer bent down and opened his shirt: 
the bullet had entered his left lung. ‘ ‘ He is dead ! * ’ exclaimed 
the officer. “No, he lives,” answered the sergeant. “Our 
poor, brave boy,” cried the officer. “ Courage ! Courage ! ” 
But while he was saying this and pressing his handkerchief 
over the wound, the boy rolled his eyes wearily, and let his 
hand fall back. He was dead. The officer turned pale and 
looked at him fixedly for a moment, then laid him with his 
head on the grass ; and, for a while, he remained looking at 
him. Also the sergeant and the two soldiers stood motionless 
and gazed at him ; the others were turned toward the enemy. 

‘ ‘ Poor boy, ’ ’ sadly repeated the officer, ‘ ‘ Poor and brave 
boy.” 

Then he approached the house and took from the window 
the tri-colored flag and stretched it out like a funeral pall 
over his body, leaving the head uncovered. The sergeant 
picked up the boy’s shoes, cap, the little stick, and the 
knife. 

They stood in silence for a moment, then the officer turned 
to the sergeant and said: “We will send the ambulance for 
him. He died like a soldier, and we will bury him like a sol¬ 
dier.” Having said this, he threw a kiss to the dead, and 
cried, “To horse.” They all jumped to their saddles, the 
troop formed again and followed up its route; but a few hours 
later the little dead boy did receive the honors of war. 

Towards sunset all the lines of the Italian advance post were 
marching toward the enemy over the same road which had 
been taken in the morning by the troop of cavalry. The large 
battalion of bersaglieri, which a few days before had valiantly 
Stained with blood the Hill of San Martino, proceeded in two 
files. The news of the death of the boy had spread through 
the army before the soldiers had left their encampment. A 
stream ran along beside the path a few paces distant from the 





11 


■Zi:-: < ii 




■I |ji||l 

r ! * ■ 




' \ : : : 

yfl 


S 

• 1 •!< i 

!■ i i - 





■{a 


y s’ 



jA 

w j 

- 5 ® 



^ V -^r . * £ *- 
































































































































































































































































THE HEART OF A BOY 


51 


house. When the first officers of the battalion saw the little 
corpse, stretched at the foot of the ash tree and covered with 
the tri-colored flag, they saluted him with the sword, and one 
of them bent over the edge of the stream, which was bordered 
with flowers, plucked two flowers and threw them over him. 
Then all the battalion, as they were passing, picked flowers 
and threw them over the dead. In a few moments the boy was 
covered with flowers, and officers and soldiers all gave him a 
salute as they passed by. “ Bravo, little Lombard!” “Good¬ 
bye, boy!” “Honor to you, little blonde!” “Hurrah!” 

‘ 4 Glory! ” “ Goodbye! ’ ’ One officer threw a medal of valor on 
him; another went to kiss his forehead ; the flowers continued 
to shower upon his bare feet, upon his wounded chest, and upon 
the blonde head. And he slept there in the grass, wrapped in 
his flag, with a white but almost smiling face, poor boy, as if he 
felt the honors paid him, as though he were content to have 
given his life for his L,ombardy. 


THE POOR 

Tuesday the 27th 

To give one's life for his own country like the boy of Lom¬ 
bardy is a great virtue , but do not forget the smaller virtues , my 
child. When we returned from school this morning , while thou 
wert walking in front of me, we passed a poor old woman who 
held a frail and sickly baby on her knees , and who asked alms oj 
thee. Thou didst look at her , but didst not give her anything , 
although thou hadst some soldi in thy pocket. Listen , my child , 
do not accustom thyself to pass indifferently in front of misery 
which stretches out its hands to thee , and much the less before a 
mother who asks a penny for her baby. Think that maybe the 
baby was hungry; think of the heartache of that poor woman. 
Can you imagine the despairing sobs of thy mother the day that she 
might have to tell thee: “ Enrico , today I can give thee no bread." 
When I give a soldo to a mendicant and he says to me: “May 


52 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


the Lord preserve thee and all thy creatures! ” thou canstnot com* 
prehend the gratitude that I feel toward that poor man . It seems 
to me, indeed., that that wish ought to prese 7 ve me in good health 
for a long time, and I return home content and think: “Ah, 

that poor man has paid me back 
more than I have given him!" 
I Let me feel that sometimes such 

-* a good wish is provoked and mer¬ 

ited by thee; take from time to 
time a soldo from thy purse and 
let it drop into the hand of an old 
man without support. Give to 
the mother without bread and to 
the baby without a mother. The 
poor love alms from children be¬ 
cause it does not humiliate them 
to receive them , and because 
children, needing everything, 
resemble them. Notice that there 
are always many poor around 
the schools. The alms of a man 
is a deed of charity, but that of a 
child is both a deed of charity and a caress. Dost thou understand 
mef It is as if from his hand fell a soldo a?id a flower. Think 
that thou lackest nothing and that they lack everything! that, 
while thou art wishing to be happy, they are satisfied not to die. 
Think that it is horrible that in so many places on the streets, 
where carriages and children dressed in velvet are passing, there 
should be women who have not enough to eat! Not to have any¬ 
thing to eat, oh my God! That boys like thee, intelligent as thou 
art, good as thou art, in the midst of a large city, like wild ani¬ 
mals lost in the desert, should have nothing to eat! No, never, 
nevermore, Enrico, pass in front of a mother who asks alms 
without putting a soldo in her hand. 



Thy Mother „ 














THE HEART OF A BOY 


53 


DECEMBER 

THE TRADING BOY 

Thursday the isf. 

My father wishes that on every vacation day I should either 
invite one of my schoolmates to come to our house or call upon 
one of them, in order to become little by little friendly with 
all. On Sunday, I am going to walk with Votini, the well 
dressed, one who is always brushing his clothes and is so envious 
of Derossi. Today, Garoffi came to the house. He is the tall, 
slender fellow with a nose like an owl’s beak and shrewd eyes, 
who always seems to scrutinize everything. He is the son of 
a druggist, and quite an original character. He is always 
counting the soldi in his pocket; he counts them on his fingers 
quickly, and can make any multiplication without an arith¬ 
metical table. He saves money even now, and has a book in 
the School Savings Bank. He never spends a soldo; and, if he 
drops a centesimo under the bench he is likely to look a week 
for it. “ He is like a night owl,” says Derossi. He finds old 
pens, old postage stamps, pins and old wax matches. Every¬ 
thing he picks up he saves. He has been collecting postage 
stamps for more than two years, and has hundreds from every 
country, pasted in a large album, which he will sell to the sta¬ 
tioner when it is full. In the meantime, the stationer gives 
him books, because he takes so many boys into his shop. At 
school, he is always trafficking. He makes a sale of somekind 
every day, gets up raffles, and trades, then he repents of hav¬ 
ing traded and wants his goods back; he buys for two and sells 
for four. He plays with pens and never loses; sells old news¬ 
papers to the tobacco man; and he has a little note book, full of 
sums in subtraction, in which he keeps a record of all his 
business. He studies only arithmetic, and, if he wishes to 
have a prize, it is only to have free entrance to a theatre of 
marionettes. I like him and he amuses me. We have played 


54 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


market together, using scales to weigh the different things. 
He knows the right price of everything, understands 
weights and measures, and can make beautiful paper bags like 
the shopkeepers. He says that as soon as he finishes school, 
he will open a store and sell some new article of commerce 
which he has invented. He has always been pleased when I 
have given him foreign postage stamps, and he has told me 
exactly how much each one will sell for. Today, my father, 
while feigning to read, stood listening to him, and was 
amused. Garoffi always has his pockets full of small articles 
of merchandise which he covers up with a long black cloak, 
and he looks as though he were continually thinking like a 
merchant. That which is the nearest to his heart is his col¬ 
lection of postage stamps; that is his treasure; he always speaks 
of it as though he expected to make a fortune out of it. His 
companions call him avaricious and an usurer. I do not know; 
I like him. He teaches me many things and he looks like a 
man. Coretti, the son of the wood huckster, says that Garoffi 
would not give away his postage stamps even to save his 
mother’s life. My father does not believe it. He says: 
“ Wait before you judge him; he has that passion,but he has 
a heart.” 


VANITY 

Monday the yth. 

Yesterday I went to take a walk through the viale Rivoli 
with Votini and his father. Passing through the street Dora 
Grosse, we saw Stardi, the one who kicks at those who trouble 
him. He was standing in front of a book-seller’s window, 
looking closely at a geographical map, and there is no knowing 
how long he had stood there, because he always studies when 
in the street. He scarcely returned our salute, the rude fel¬ 
low. Votini was well dressed—too well. He wore morocco 
leather boots trimmed with red, an embroidered suit with silk 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


55 


tassels, and a white castor hat. He carried a watch and 
strutted; but his vanity served him ill this time. After having 
walked for a long time along the path, leaving his father 
who walked slowly some distance behind, we sat down on a 
stone bench next to a boy who was modestly dressed, who 



reading a newspaper. Votini sat down between the lad and 
myself and he immediately remembered that he was well dressed 
and wished to be admired and envied by his neighbor. 


He raised his foot and said to me, ‘ ‘ Have you seen my offi¬ 
cer’s boots? ” He said that in order to have the other boy 
look at them, but he paid no attention. 

Then he lowered his foot and showed me his silk tassels 
and said, glancing askance at the boy, that he did not like 
those silk tassels; that he wanted to have them changed for 
silver buttons; but the boy did not even look at the tassels. 

Votini then began to turn his beautiful white castor hat 
on the point of his finger; but the boy (it seemed that he did 
it purposely) did not deign to even look at the hat. 




56 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


Votini was beginning to get irritated. He pulled out his 
watch, opened it and showed me the works, but the other boy 
did not turn his head. “ Is it silver ? ” I asked him. No, 
he answered, “ it is gold.” “ But it is not all gold,” said I; 
“there is probably some silver in it.” “ No, indeed, he le- 
peated; and, in order to force the boy to look, he held the 
watch before his face and said, “ Took and tell me, is it not all 
gold?” 

The boy answered drily, “ I do not know.” 

° Oh, ohi” exclaimed Votini, full of wrath. “What 
pride ! ’ * 

As he said this Votini’s father came up and heard him. He 
looked fixedly at the boy for a moment, and then said brusquely 
to his son, “Be silent.” And whispering into his ear, he 
added: “ He is blind.” 

Votini jumped to his feet with a shudder, and looked at 
the boy’s face. His eyes were glassy and he had no expres¬ 
sion in them. 

Votini stood dumbfounded, with downcast eyes ; at last, he 
muttered: “ I regret- I did not know it.” 

But the blind boy, who had understood everything, said, 
with a melancholy and sweet smile : “ Oh, it does not matter.” 

Yes, Votini is vain, but he has not a bad heart. He did not 
smile again all that day. 


THE FIRST SNOW STORM 

Saturday the 10th. 

Farewell, walks to Rivoli, here comes the children’s beau¬ 
tiful friend ! Here comes the first snow ! Since last evening, 
it has fallen down in large flakes like jessamine flowers. It was 
fun this morning at school to see it fall against the windows 
and pile up on their sills. The teacher also looked at it and 
rubbed his hands. We were all content, thinking of making 
snowballs and of the ice which will come, and of the fire at 



« 



\ 







































































































THE HEART OF A BOY 


57 


home. There was no one but Stardi who did not look at it ; 
he was all absorbed in his lesson, with his hand on his temple. 
How beautiful ! What a time we had coming out! All danced 
down the street, shouting and gesticulating, snatching up 
handfuls of snow and dashing it about like poodles in the water. 
The parents were waiting outside the school room with um¬ 
brellas which were covered with snow, the policeman’s helmet 
was white, and all our satchels became white in a few moments. 
The boys all seemed beside themselves with joy. Even Pre- 
cossi, the son of the blacksmith, the little pallid lad who never 
laughs; and Robetti, the one who saved the child from under 
the omnibus, poor boy, was leaping on his crutches. The 
Calabrian boy who had never seen snow, made a little ball of 
it and began to eat it like a peach; Crossi, the son of the vege¬ 
table woman, filled his satchel; and the Tittle Mason made us 
nearly burst with laughter, when my father invited him to 
come and visit me to-morrow; he had his mouth full of snow 
and he did not dare to swallow it nor spit it out, and he stood 
there choking and staring at us but could not answer. Even 
the teachers were laughing as they ran out of the school. My 
teacher of the first grade was among them, poor woman, run¬ 
ning through the slush, protecting her face with her green veil, 
and she was coughing. In the meanwhile, hundreds of girls from 
the neighboring school were passing, screaming and dancing 
upon that white carpet, and the teachers, janitor and police¬ 
men were shouting: “ Go home ! Go home ! ” Their mustaches 
and whiskers were growing white with snow, but they also 
laughed at the revelry of the pupils, who were enjoying the 
winter. 

Thou art enjoying winter - but there are boys who have no 

clothes , no shoes , no jire. There are those who come down to the 
villages from long distances , carrying in their hands—bleeding 
with chilblains—a piece of log to warm up the school-room. 
There are hundreds of schools almost buried in snow y like caves , 
where the children nearly suffocate from the smoke and their teeth 



58 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


chatter with the cold, looking with tei ror through the white snow¬ 
flakes which fall without ceasing , which pile up constantly upon 
their distant huts , threatened by the avalanche. You enjoy winter , 
boys! Think of the thousands of human beings to whom winter 
brings misery and death! Thy Father. 

THE ElTTEE MASON 

“ The Little Mason ” came to-day, dressed up in his hunt¬ 
ing jacket and clothes cast off by his father, still white with 
lime and chalk. My father wished him to come even more 
than I did. How pleased we were to see him ! As soon as he 
entered he took off the soft felt hat, which was all wet with 
snow, and stuck it into his pocket; then he came forward with 
that careless gait, like a tired workman, with his small face 
round like an apple and his nose like a ball, turning his eyes 
to look here and there; and when he came into the dining 
room, he cast a glance around at the furniture, and then fixed 
his eyes upon the portrait which represents Rigoletto, the 
hunchbacked buffoon, and he made the hare face. 

It is impossible to keep from laughing when you see him 
make the hare face. We began to play with wood blocks. 
He is skilled in building towers and bridges, which seem to 
stand as though by magic, and he works at it seriously with 
the energy of a man. Between the building of one tower and 
another, he told me about his family. They live in a garret. 
His father goes to the evening school to learn to read and 
write; his mother is from Biella. His parents must love him; 
one can see it, because if he is dressed as a poor child, } T et he is 
protected against the cold. His clothes are well mended, and 
he wears a necktie which is tied by the hand ol his mother. 
He told me that his father is a big fellow, a giant who can 
hardly go through the doors, but he is kind, and he always 
calls his son “ Hare Face.” The son, however, is very small. 

At four o’clock we had lunch together, seated on the sofa. 


the heart of a boy 


59 


When we got up I could not understand why my father did 
not want me to clean the back of the sofa, where the Little 
Mason had made it white with his jacket, but he held back my 
hand, and cleaned it himself on the sly. While we were playing, 
che Little Mason lost a button from his hunting jacket, and my 
mother sewed it on again for him; and he blushed and stood 
looking at her so surprised and confused that he could scarcely 
breathe. After that I gave him an album which contained il¬ 
lustrations of different characters, to look at; and, unsconcious 
of it, he made faces so much like them that even my father 
laughed. He was so happy when he left that he forgot to put 
on his hat, and to show me his gratitude, when we got to the 
landing, he once more made the hare face. His name is An¬ 
tonio Rabucco. He is eight years and eight months old. 

Dost thou know, my son, why I did not wish thee to clean the 
sofa f Because, by cleaning it when thy companion would see thee 
was to reprove him for having soiled it; and that would not have been 
right; first, because he had not done it purposely, and also because 
he had done it with the clothes of his father, which have been cov¬ 
ered with plaster while at work, and what one rubs against at work 
is not dirt; it is dust, or lime, or varnish, anything that thou wilt, 
but not dirt. Work does not make one filthy. Never say of a 
workman who comes from his labor: ‘ ‘ He is filthy; ’ ’ thou must 
say: “He has on his clothes the traces of toil." Remember 
this, and tove the Little Mason because he is thy companion and 
because he is the son of a workman. Thy Father. 


A SNOWBAEE 

Friday the 16th. 

And it keeps on snowing. An ugly accident happened this 
morning because of the snow. As we came out of the school 
room, a crowd of boys just entering the Corso began to throw 
snowballs made of watery snow, which makes balls that are as 
hard and heavy as stones. Many persons were passing on the 



60 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


sidewalk, and a gentleman cried: “ Stop, you rogues! ” Just 
at that moment, a sharp cry was heard on the other side of the 
street, and an old man, who had lost his hat, was seen stagger¬ 
ing and covering his face with his hands. A boy next to him 
cried: “Help! Help!” 

Immediately people ran to him from every side; a snowball 
had struck him in the eye. All the boys dispersed, running 
like a flash. I stood in front of the bookseller’s shop that 
my father had entered, and saw several of my classmates who 
were mingled with the others near me, rush in and pretend to 
be looking at the show-cases. There was Garrone with a loaf 
of bread in his pocket as usual, Coretti, the Little Mason, and 
Garoffl, the one who collects postage stamps. In the mean¬ 
time, a crowd had gathered around the old man, and the 
policemen and others were running on all sides, threatening 
and asking: ‘‘ Who was it? ’’ “ Who did it?” “ Was it 
you ? ’ ’ Tell me, who did it ? ’ ’ and looking at the hands of the 
boys that were wet with snow. 

Garoffl was next to me and I noticed that he was trem¬ 
bling like a leaf and his face was as white as that of a 
corpse. “ Who was it?*’ “Who did it?” the people con¬ 
tinued to cry. 

Then I heard Garrone saying softly to Garoffl: “ Come, 
go and denounce thyself; it would be cowardly to allow some 
one else to be arrested.’’ 

‘ * But I did not do it on purpose, ’ ’ answered Garoffl, still 
trembling. 

“ It matters not, do your duty,’’ repeated Garrone. 

“But I have not the courage.” 

“ Take courage; I will accompany you.” 

And the others were crying still louder: “ Who was it? ” 
“ Who did it ? ” “ One of his glasses has entered into his eye! 

They have blinded him, the brigands! ” 

I thought that Garoffl would fall on the ground. “ Go,” 
said Garrone resolutely; “ I will defend you,” and, taking him 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


61 


by the arm, he pushed him forward, holding him up like a sick 
person. The people saw and understood immediately, and 
many made a dash at him with their arms lifted, but Garrone 
put himself before him, crying: 

“You are ten against a child! ” 

Then they stppped, and a policeman took Garoffi by the 
hand and, making his way through the crowd, he led him to 
a baker’s shop, where the wounded man had been carried. 
When I saw him I recognized immediately the old employee 
who lives on the fourth floor of our house with his little 
nephew. He was leaning back on a chair with a handkerchief 
over one eye. “I did not do it on purpose,” said Garoffi, half 
dead with fear; “ I did not do it on purpose.” 

Two or three persons pushed him into the shop violently. 

‘ ‘ Bow down thy head! ” “ Ask forgiveness! ’ ’ and they threw 

him on the floor; but suddenly two vigorous arms put him upon 
his feet, and a resolute voice said: 

“No, gentlemen!” It was our principal, who had seen 
everything. “ Since he has had the courage to give himself 
up,” he added, “ no one has the right to abuse him.” They 
all held their peace. ‘ ‘ Ask forgiveness, ’ ’ said the principal to 
Garoffi. Garoffi burst into tears and embraced the knees of 
the old man, who put his hand on his head and caressed his 
hair, and then they all said: 

“Go home, child, go home.” 

My father took me away from the crowd, and said on the 
way home: “ Enrico, in a similar case, would you have had 
the courage to do your duty and to go and confess your guilt ? ’* 
I answered, “Yes, I would.” 

‘ ‘ Give me your word as a boy of heart and of honor that 
you would do so.” 

“ I give you my word, father !” 


62 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


THE SCHOOE MISTRESS 

Saturday the ijtk 

\ 

Garoffi was very much frightened to-day because he ex¬ 
pected a great scolding from the teacher, but the teacher did 
not make his appearance, and, as the substitute was also ab¬ 
sent, the signora Cromi, the oldest of the school mis¬ 
tresses, came to teach us. She has two large boys, and 
she has taught many of the ladies to read and write, who now 
come to the school to accompany their own boys. 

She was sad to-day because she has a sick child. As soon 
as the boys saw her they began to make an uproar, but with 
a sweet and tranquil voice she said softly, “ Respect my gray 
hair; I am not only a teacher, but a mother as well.” Then no 
one dared to speak; not even Franti, who was satisfied with 
jeering her on the sly. 

Mistress Delcati, the teacher of my brother, was sent to 
Cromi’s class, and in Mistress Delcati’s place they put the one 
whom they call “The Little Nun,” because she is always 
dressed in black and has a small white face. She combs her 
hair down smoothly; her eyes are very clear, and she has such 
a low voice that it seems as though she were all the time 
murmuring prayers. “ One cannot understand her,” says my 
mother, “ she is so mild and timid, with such a tremor in her 
voice that one can scarcely hear her; and she never cries, never 
gets angry. ’ ’ Still she holds the boys down very quietly so that 
they cannot be heard, and the most roguish of them will bow' 
his head if she only admonishes him with her finger. Her 
school seems like a church; this is another reason why they 
call her “ The Little Nun.” 

There is another whom I also like—the little school mis¬ 
tress of the upper number three, the young lady with the rosy 
face and two dimples in her cheeks; she wears a large red 
feather in her hat and a yellow cross on her neck. She is 





































































































































































































' 


































. 






THE HEART OF A BOY 


63 


always happy and keeps the class merry; she is always smiling, 
and when she scolds with her silvery voice it seems as though 
she were singing, striking her little rod on the table and clap¬ 
ping her hands to impose silence. When they leave the room 
she runs behind them like a child, first to one and then 
another, to keep them in line. She pulls up the cap of one 
and buttons the coat f>f another so that they will not catch 
cold. She begs the parents not to chastise them at home. 
She brings lozenges for those who cough, and lends her muff 
to those who are cold, and she is constantly harassed by the 
little fellows who torment her and ask her for kisses, pulling 
at her veil and mantle. She lets them do it, and kisses every 
one, laughing, and she returns home all out of breath but 
happy. She is also the drawing teacher of the girls’ schoo 1 
and supports a mother and a brother with her earnings. 


IN THE HOME OF THE WOUNDED MAN 

Sunday the 18th. 

The little nephew of the old employe who was struck in 
the eye with a snowball by Garoffi belongs to the class of the 
teacher with the red feather. We called on him to-day at the 
home of his uncle, who keeps him like a son. 

I had just finished writing the monthly story, “ The Little 
Florentine Writer,” for next week, which the teacher gave me 
to copy, when my father said to me, “We will go upstairs to 
the fourth story to see how that gentleman is getting along 
with his eye.” We entered a room almost dark where there 
was an old man sitting up in bed with a great many pillows at 
his back. By his bedside sat his wife, and in the corner the 
little nephew was playing with toys. The old man had his 
right eye bandaged. He was much pleased to see my father, 
asking us to sit down, and told us that he was getting better, 
that not only was his eye not lost, but that in two or three 
days he would be entirely recovered. “ It was an accident,” 



64 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


he added, ‘ ‘ and I am sorry for the fright that the poor boy 
must have had. ’ ’ 

Then he spoke of the physician who was to come at that 
time to attend him. 

Just at that moment, the bell rang. “ It is the physician, ’ ’ 

said the lady. The door opens - and whom do I see ? 

Garoffi, with his long cloak, standing on the threshold with his 
head bent down as though he lacked the courage to enter. 

“ Who is it ? ” asked the sick man. 

•‘It is the boy who threw the snowball,” answered my 
father, and the old man said: ‘‘Oh, my poor boy, walk in, 
you come to inquire after the wounded man, isn’t that so ? He 
is better ; be easy; I am better, I am almost well. Come 
here.’ 

Garoffi, very much confused, approached the bed, making 
an effort to keep from crying, and the old man caressed him, 
but he could not speak. 

“Thanks,” said the old man. “Go and tell your father 
and mother that all is well; let them not worry on my 
account. ’ ’ 

But Garoffi did not move, he looked as though he had some¬ 
thing to say but dared not say it. 

“ What have you to tell me ? What do you want ? ” 

“I, nothing.” 

“Then, farewell, boy. Go with your heart at peace.” 

Garoffi walked to the door, but there he stopped and turned 
around toward the little nephew who was following him, and 
looking at him, he suddenly pulled something from under his 
cloak and put it in the hands of the boy, saying hastily, “This 
is for you,” and he dashed out. 

The boy took the parcel to his uncle and they saw written 
upon it: “ I give you this as a present." 

After looking inside, he uttered an exclamation of surprise; 
it was the famous album, containing his collection of postage 
stamps, that poor Garoffi had given him; the collection of which 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


65 


he always spoke and upon which he had founded so many hopes 
and which had cost him so many efforts ; it was a treasure, 
poor lad, it was half of his own blood that he had given the old 
man in exchange for his pardon. 


THE EITTEE FLORENTINE WRITER 

(MONTHLY story.) 

He belonged to the fourth elementary class. He was a 
pretty Florentine lad of twelve, with black hair and light com¬ 
plexion, the eldest son of a railroad employee, who, hav¬ 
ing a large family and a 
small salary, lived in 
straightened circumstances. 

The little boy’s father loved 
him very much, and was 
kind to him and indulgent, 
except in what concerned 
the school. In this one re¬ 
spect he was exacting and 
showed himself severe with 
him because he must soon 
be able to obtain employ¬ 
ment in order to help the 
family along, and to accom¬ 
plish this he must learn much in a short time. And, although 
the boy studied, the father still exhorted him to study harder. 
His father was advanced in years, and severe work had 
made him grow old before his time; nevertheless, in order 
to provide for the necessities of his family, besides the large 
amount of work which his office brought him, he undertook 
to do some extra work as copyist, and would spend a great 
part of the night at his desk. Lately he had obtained work 
from a publishing house which published books and peri¬ 
odicals, and he had to write on the wrappers the names and 








66 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


addresses of all the subscribers. He received three lire foi 
every five hundred paper wrappers which he addressed. But 
this work-tired him out, and he often complained to the family 
at the dinner table. 

“ My eyesight is going,” he would say, “ this night work 
is killing me.” His son said one day: “ Papa, let me work 
in your stead, you know that I write just as you do.” But 
the father answered: “ No, my child, you must study. Your 
school is of more importance than my wrappers. It would 
grieve me to steal an hour from you. I thank you, but I will 
not allow you to do it; do not speak of it again.” 

The son knew it was useless to argue with his father in 
such matters, and so he did not insist. But this is what he 
did. He knew that at midnight his father would stop writ¬ 
ing, leave his working room and go into his bedroom. At 
times he heard, immediately after the stroke of twelve, the 
noise of a chair moved and the slow step of his father. That 
night he waited until his father had gone to bed, dressed him¬ 
self very quietly, went softly into the writing room, lit the 
kerosene lamp, and sat down on the desk where there was a 
pile of white wrappers and the list of the addresses, and began 
to write, imitating exactly his father’s handwriting. He 
wrote willingly and gladly, though a little frightened, and the 
wrappers piled up. Once in a while he would stop to rub 
his hands and then begin again with increased alacrity, listen¬ 
ing intently and smiling. He wrote one hundred and sixty, 
“ One lire;” then he stopped, replaced the pen where he had 
found it, and returned to bed on tiptoe. 

The next day his father sat at the head of the table in good 
humor. He had not noticed anything. He was doing his 
work mechanically, measuring it by hours, and thinking of 
other matters, and did not count the wrappers until the day 
after they were written. That day he slapped his hand on 
his son’s shoulder, and said, “Well, Giulio, your father is still 
a good workman, no matter what you may think. In two 


the heart of a boy 


67 


hours last night he did a good third more work than usual. 
My hand is still quick and my eyes still do their duty.” 
Giulio was content, and said to himself, “ Poor papa; besides 
his gain, I also give him the satisfaction of thinking himself 
rejuvenated. Well, have courage ! ” 

Encouraged by his first success, the next night as soon as 
the clock struck twelve he got up and went to work again, and 
so he did for several nights, and his father did not notice any¬ 
thing. One night at supper he remarked, “It is strange the 
amount of kerosene that we use in this house of late.” Giulio 
felt a shock, but the conversation stopped there, and the night 
work went on. 

However, by losing his sleep every night in this way, 
Giulio did not rest enough, and in the morning he would get 
up feeling tired, and when he did his school work in the 
evening he had difficulty in keeping his eyes open. One even- 
ing, for the first time in his life, he fell asleep on liis copy¬ 
book. 

“ Courage, courage ! ” cried his father, clapping his hands. 
“ To work ! ” 

He shook himself and set to work again. But the next 
evening and the following days was the same thing, and 
even worse. He dozed over his books, would get up later 
than usual, study his lessons in a careless way, and seemed 
disgusted with study. His father began to observe this, and 
then to worry about him, and at last to reprove him. He 
should never have done so. 

“ Giulio,” said he one morning, “you disappoint me; you 
are no longer what you once were. This cannot go on. All 
the hopes of the family rest upon you. I am dissatisfied, do 
you hear? ” 

Hearing such a reproof, the first really severe one which he 
had ever received, the boy was troubled. “ Yes,” said he to 
himself, “I cannot continue in this way, it is true; the test 
must come to an end. ’ ’ But that same evening, his father ex- 


68 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


claimed with much satisfaction, ‘ ‘ Do you know that, this 
month, I have earned thirty-two lire more by addressing wrap¬ 
pers than I did last month ! ” And as he said this he pulled 
from under the table a box of candy which he had bought in 
order to celebrate with his children the extra profit, and which 
they all received with delight. 

Giulio then took courage, and said in his heart: “ No, 
poor papa, I will not stop deceiving you; I will make a greater 
effort to study during the day, but I shall keep on working at 
night for you and for the others.” And his father added: 

“ Thirty-two lire more, I am happy-but that fellow there, ” 

and he pointed at Giulio, “he displeases me.” And Giulio 
accepted the reproof in silence, swallowing the tears which were 
about to fall, and feeling at the same time, a great sweetness 
in his heart. 

He kept on working, but fatigue following fatigue, it be¬ 
came harder and harder for him to resist it. He worked in 
this way for two months. His father continued to reprove him 
and to look at him with more and more of a frown. One day 
he went to ask information of the teacher, and the latter 
said: 

“ Yes, he goes on because he is intelligent, but he has no 
longer the good will which he had at first; he dozes, yawns, 
and seems distracted. He writes shorter compositions, and his 
penmanship is so bad that they must have been written in 
haste. He could do much more. ” 

That evening his father took him aside and talked to him 
more severely than he had ever done before: “Giulio, you 
see that I work, that I wear my life out for the family. You 
do not second my efforts. You do not care for me, for your 
brothers, for your mother !” 

“ Oh! no, no, do not say so, father,” cried the boy bursting 
into tears and opening his mouth, about to confess everything. 
But his father interrupted him, saying: 

“ You know the condition of the family; you know there is 



the heart of a boy 


69 


need of good will and sacrifice on the part of all; you see how 
I double up my work. I was counting this month on a grati¬ 
fication of a hundred lire at the railway office, and I learned 
this morning that I will not get anything!” At this news, 
Giulio repressed the confession which was about to escape from 
his lips and repeated resolutely to himself: 

“ No > P a P a > 1 will tell you nothing; I will maintain secrecy 
in order to be able to work for you; I will compensate you for 
the pain that I cause you; at school I will always study enough 
to be advanced; what is necessary now is to help you to earn 
your living and to lessen the fatigues which are killing you.” 
And the boy kept up this night work continually for two 
months and suffered from lassitude during the day; there were 
desperate efforts on the part of the son and bitter reproofs from 
the father. 

But the worst of it all was that the latter was gradually 
growing colder toward his boy; he spoke to him rarely, as though 
he were a recreant son from whom there was no more to hope, 
and always tried to avoid his glance. Giulio noticed this and 
suffered from it, and when his father tnrned his back, he threw 
him a furtive kiss, with a pitiful and sad tenderness on his face. 

Owing to the sorrow and fatigue, the boy was growing thin¬ 
ner, was losing his color and was forced to neglect his studies. 
He understood too well that some day or other it would come 
to an end, and every evening he would say: “ Tonight I will 
not get up;” but at the stroke of twelve, at the moment when 
he must keep his resolution, he felt a remorse, and it seemed 
to him that if he remained in bed he failed to do his duty—rob¬ 
bing his father and his family of a lire; and he would get up, 
thinking that some night his father would wake up and sur¬ 
prise him, or that he would find out the deceit by chance in 
counting over the wrappers twice, and then all would come to 
an end without any action on his part, but he did not feel cour¬ 
ageous enough to tell his father what he was doing; and he 
kept on with his work. 


70 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


But one evening at dinner, his father said something which 
decided him. His mother looked at him and it seemed to her 
that he appeared more ill and weaker than usual; she said to 
him: “ Giulio, you are ill ! ” And then turning with anxiety 
to her husband, “Giulio is ill. Look how pale he is! My 
Giulio, what is the matter with you ? ’ ’ 

His father cast a glance at him and said: “ It is his bad 
conscience that causes him to be in poor health; he was not like 
this when he was a studious pupil and a boy of heart. 

“ But he is looking ill,” exclaimed the mother. 

“ I don’t care,” answered the father. 

These words were like a knife blade in the heart of the poor 
boy. * ‘ Ha ! he did not care for him any more ! ” His own 
father, who once trembled to hear him cough ! He did not 
love him any more ! He was no longer in doubt; he was dead 
in the heart of his father. 

“Ah, now, my father,” said the boy to himself with his heart 
oppressed with anxiety, “ this is the end, indeed; I cannot live 
without your affection; I want to have it back, the whole of it; 
I will tell you all; I will not deceive you any longer; I will 
study as I did before, let what will happen, if you will only 
love me once more, my poor father. This time I am sure of 
my resolution.” 

Nevertheless, when midnight came, he got up again from 
mere force of habit more than anything else, and when he was 
up, he wished to go and sit for a few minutes, in the peaceful¬ 
ness of the night, and for the last time, in that little room 
where he had worked so hard, on the sly, with his heart full 
of satisfaction and tenderness. And when he found himself at 
the desk with the lamp lighted and those white paper wrap¬ 
pers, upon which he would no longer write the names of per¬ 
sons and towns which by this time he knew by heart, he was 
overtaken by a great sadness, and with impetuosity he grasped 
the pen again to begin the usual work. But in stretching out 
his hand he pushed a book and it fell. 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


71 


The blood rushed to his heart. What if his father should 
waken ! He would certainly not surprise him in the act of 
doing something bad. He had resolved to tell him every¬ 
thing; still,-to hear that step approaching in the 

darkness—to be surprised at that hour of the night, in that sc¬ 
ience! He must also have wakened his mother and she would 
be frightened—And to think that for the first time his father 
should experience humiliation in his presence, having discov¬ 
ered everything.- All this terrified him. He put his ear 

to the lock with suspended breath-he heard no noise. He 

went to another door of the room, but heard nothing. The 
whole house was asleep. His father had not heard him. 

He felt tranquil and began to write again, and the wrappers 
were piling up fast. He heard the regular step of the police¬ 
man in the deserted street, then the noise of a carriage which 
suddenly stopped; then, after a while, the rattle of a file of 
trucks which were slowly passing ; then a profound silence, 
broken from time to time by the barking of a dog in the dis¬ 
tance. And he kept on writing and writing. In the mean time 
his father had come in and stood behind him. 

Hearing the book fall, he had risen and had stood awaiting 
the proper moment; the rattling of the trucks had drowned his 
foot-steps and the creaking of the door. He stood there with 
his white head over the small black head of Giulio ; he had 
seen the pen run over the wrappers; in a moment, he had 
guessed everything, remembered all, understood all, and a sense 
of despairing repentance and of immense tenderness had invaded 
his soul and had kept him there, riveted and suffocated behind 
his child. 

Suddenly, Giulio uttered a piercing shriek and two convul¬ 
sive arms had clasped his head. “Oh, papa, papa, forgive me ! 
forgive me!” he cried, having become aware of his father’s 
presence by his weeping. 

“You, forgive me,’’ answered his father, sobbing, and cov¬ 
ing his forehead with kisses. ‘ ‘ I understand all. I know all. 





72 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


It is I! It is I who ask forgiveness from you, blessed little 
child of mine. Come, come with me,” and he pushed him, or 
rather carried him to his mother who was also awake, and 
throwing him into her arms, said: 

‘ ‘ Kiss this angel of a child, who for the last three months 
has not slept but has worked for me, while I was saddening his 
heart, the heart of him who earned our bread.” 

The mother clasped him and held him to her breast without 
being able to speak a word, and then said: “ Go to sleep 
immediately, my child, go to sleep and rest. Take him to 
bed!” The father took him in his arms and carried him to 
his room and put him to bed, still breathing hard and caressing 
him, fixed his pillows and his bed covers. 

‘ ‘ Thanks, papa. ’ ’ The boy repeated his thanks and added: 
‘ ‘But now, you go to bed, I am satisfied; go to bed, papa. ’ ’ But 
his father wanted to see him asleep and sat by the bedside, 
took his hand and said: “Sleep ! Sleep ! my child ! ” And 
Giulio, tired out, at last fell asleep and slept many hours, en¬ 
joying for the first time in several months a peaceful sleep, 
enlivened by pleasant dreams; and when he opened his eyes the 
sun was shining, and he saw close to his breast, leaning upon 
the edge of the little bed, the white head of his father who had 
passed the night thus, and who still slept with his brow lean¬ 
ing against his son’s heart. 


WiEE 

There is Stardi in my class who would have the strength to 
do what the little Florentine boy has done. This morning, there 
were two events at school: Garoffi was crazy with satisfaction 
because they had returned his album with the addition of three 
postage stamps of the Republic of Guatemala which he had 
been trying to get for the last three months ; and Stardi won 
the second medal. Stardi next in the class to Derossi ! It was 
a surprise to all. Who would have thought it would be so in 
























THE HEART OF A BOY 


73 


October, when his father took him to school, bundled up in his 
large green overcoat, and said to the master, in the presence of 
all the pupils: “ Have a great deal of patience, because it is 
difficult for him to understand. ’’ Every one called him a block¬ 
head at the beginning. But he started to work with all his 
might, in the day time, by night, at home, at school, or walk¬ 
ing in the street, with his teeth shut and his fists clenched. 
And, surely, by dint of trampling on every one, not caring for 
the jeers of others, and kicking all those who disturbed him, he 
passed ahead of every one, that blockhead, who did not under¬ 
stand the first thing about arithmetic, filled his composition 
with mistakes, and could not commit to memory a single para¬ 
graph. Now, he solves problems, writes correctly, sings his 
lesson like a song. One can guess at his iron will when one sees 
how he is built, so thick-set with a square head and no neck, 
with short hands and a coarse voice. He studies even in scrap 
books, newspapers, and theatre advertisements, and every time 
he gets ten soldi, he buys a book. He has already collected 
quite a little library, and, in a moment of good humor, he has 
promised to take me to his home to see it. He never speaks 
to any one, never plays with any one, but is always there at 
his desk with his fists on his temples, sitting like a rock, listen¬ 
ing to the teacher. How he must have struggled, poor Stardi ! 
The master, although he was impatient and in a bad humor this 
morning when he delivered the medals said: “ Bravo,, Stardi, 
he who endures conquers. ’ ’ But Stardi did not seem at all puffed 
up with pride, he did not even smile, and as soon as he returned 
to his bench with his medal, he put his two fists on his temples 
and sat just as still and more attentive than before. But 
the finest thing happened when he went out of school, where 
his father was waiting for him. He is a thick-set fellow, big 
and clumsy, with a large round face and a heavy voice. He 
did not expect that medal, and could scarcely believe it was 
true that Stardi had won it; the teacher was obliged to convince 
him, and then he began to laugh heartily and tapped his son on 


74 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


the back of the neck, saying in a loud voice: 'Well done ! 
Bravo, my little blockhead ! that is the way ! ” and looked at 
him as if amazed, but smiling. And all the boys around 
smiled, with the exception of Stardi, who was already pondering 
over the lesson for to-morrow morning. 


GRATITUDE 

Saturday the 31st. 

Thy companion, Stardi, never complains about his master, I 
am sure . ‘ ‘ The teacher was in a bad humor and was impatient. * * 
And thou sayst that, in a tone of resentment. Think a little, how 
many times dost thou act impatiently thyself and with whom ? 

With thy father and thy mother, towards whom thy impatience is 
a crime. Thy teacher is right to be impatient at times! Think 
how many years he has toiled for the boys, and though he has had 
many who were kind and devoted to him, there are always some 
who are ungrateful and take advantage of his kindness, who do 
not appreciate his efforts; and among all of you, you cause him 
more bitterness than satisfaction. Think that the most blessed 
man on earth, if put in his place, would at times be conquered by 
wrath. And then if thou knewest how many times he goes to 
teach, not feeling well and yet not ill enough to remain away 
from the school room. He is impatient because he suffers, and it 
pains him to see that you do not notice it and that you take advan¬ 
tage of it. Respect and love thy master, child. Love him be¬ 
cause thy father loves and respects him t because he consecrates his 
life to the welfare of so many boys, who will forget him. Love 
him because he opens and enlightens thy intelligence and educates 
thy soul; because some day when thou art a man, and when 
neither he nor I shall be in this world, his image will often pre¬ 
sent itself to thy mind alongside of mine, and then thou wilt notice 
certain expressions of sorrow and of weariness in his good face 
which thou dost not observe now, but that thou wilt remember and 
that will cause thee sorrow even thirty years later; and thou wilt 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


75 


be shamed, and wilt experience sadness for not having loved him 
and for behaving badly toward him . Love thy teacher because he 
belongs to the large family of fifty thousand elementary teachers 
scattered all over Italy, who are like intellectual fathers to millions 
of boys who grow uf with thee; a worker scarcely recognized and 
badly recompensed, and who prepares for our country a people bet¬ 
ter than the present one. I am not content with the affection which 
thou hast for me, if thou hast not also an affection for all those 
who do thee good, and among these thy master, who is the first 
after thy parents. Love him as thou wouldst a brother of mine. 
Love him when he caresses thee and when he reproves thee; when 
he is just, and when it seems that he is unjust. Love him when 
he is merry and affable, and love him also still more when he is 
sad. Love him always, and always pronounce with reverence this 
word, “master,” which, next to the name of “father,” is the 
most noble and the sweetest that a man can call any man. 

Thy Father. 


JANUARY 

THE SUBSTITUTE 

Wednesday the 4th. 

My father was right; the teacher was in a bad humor because 
he was not feeling well. For the last three days, a substitute 
nas taken his place, a little fellow without whiskers and who 
looks like a youth. A shameful thing happened this morn¬ 
ing. The boys had been making an uproar at school for the 
past two days, because the substitute has a great deal of 
patience and says nothing except: “ Be quiet, be silent, I beg 
you! ” 

But this morning they passed all bounds. A great noise 
arose and his words could no longer be heard; he would ad¬ 
monish and beg, but it was all lost. The principal peeped 


76 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


through the door twice, but as soon as he was gone, the noise 
would increase, as it does in a market place. Garrone and 
Derossi in vain turned around and made some signs to their 
companions to keep quiet, as it was a shame. No one paid 
any heed. Stardi kept quiet. He sat with his elbows on the 
desk and his fists on his temples, probably dreaming of his 
famous library. Garoffi, the boy with the hooked nose and the 
collector of postage stamps, kept busy, drawing up a list of 
subscribers at two ‘ ‘ centesimi 5 ’ each for the lottery of a big 
inkstand. The rest of the boys chattered and laughed, played 
with pen points stuck on the benches, and threw pellets of 
paper at each other with the elastics from their garters. The 
substitute would grab by the arm, now one boy and now an¬ 
other, and shake him, but it was time and trouble wasted. The 
substitute no longer knew what to do, and was entreating: 

‘ ‘ Why do you act this way ? Do you want me to punish you 
by force ? ’ ’ Then he would pound his fists upon the desk and 
cry, in a voice mingled with wrath and tears: “Silence! 
Silence! Silence!” It was painful to hear him. 

But the noise grew every moment. Franti threw a paper 
arrow at him, others uttered cat-calls, some thumped each 
other on the head; it was a pandemonium almost beyond de¬ 
scription, when all of a sudden the janitor entered: 

“ Signor Maestro, the principal calls you.” 

The teacher arose and left hurriedly, making a gesture of 
despair. Then the noise recommenced stronger than ever. 
But suddenly Garrone sprang up with a convulsed face 
and his fist closed, and shouted with a voice thick with 
wrath: 

“ Stop this, you brutes! you take advantage of him because 
he is good; if he were to bruise your skin you would keep as 
abject as dogs. You are a lot of cowards! The first one who 
mocks him again, I will lay for him outside and break his 
teeth; I swear it, even though it be under the eyes of his father!” 
They were all silent. • 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


77 


Ah! how beautiful it was to see Garrone with those eyes 
that were emitting flames! He appeared like a furious little 
lion. He looked at the boldest boys, one by one, and they 
bent their heads. When the substitute, with red eyes, re¬ 
entered the room not a breath was heard. He stood in amaze¬ 
ment. But, after seeing Garrone, still all aflame and 
trembling, he understood and said, with an accent of great 
affection, as if he were speaking to a brother: “ I thank you, 
Garrone. ’ * 


STARDl’S LIBRARY 

Stardi lives opposite the school and I have been in his home. 
I felt envious, indeed, when I saw his library. He is not 
rich; he cannot buy many books; but he keeps with care his 
school books and those which his parents give him, and saves 
all the soldi which he gets, and puts them aside and spends 
them at the book-seller’s; in this way he has already got a lit¬ 
tle library. And when his father discovered that he had this 
passion, he bought him a nice walnut bookcase with a green 
curtain and had many volumes bound in the colors he liked the 
best. When he pulls a little string the curtain runs back and 
one can see three rows of books of every color, all placed in 
good order, shining, with the titles in gold on the back. Books 
of stories, of travels, of poetry, and some of them are illus¬ 
trated. He knows how to harmonize the colors and puts the 
white volumes next to the red, the yellow ones next to the 
black, and the blue ones next to the white in a way that they 
may be seen at a distance and make a nice show, and he 
amuses himself by changing the combinations. He has made 
himself a catalogue. He is like a librarian, always around his 
books, dusting them, turning over the leaves, and examining 
the bindings; you ought to see with what care he opens them 
with those short, thick fingers, blowing through the pages, and 
they all seem new. I have worn mine all out! Every new 


78 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


book he buys is a feast for him; he polishes it and puts it in 
place, taking it and looking at it in every way, and brooding 
over it like a treasure. He showed me nothing else in an 
hour’s time. He has sore eyes from reading too much. While 
I was there his father passed through the room. He is big 
and clumsy and has a large head like Stardi’s. He gave him 
two or three thumpings on the back of his head, saying with 
that big voice of his: 

“What do you think, eh, of this thick head of bronze t 
It is a thick head which I assure you will succeed in doing 
something! * ’ 

And Stardi half closed his eyes under that rough caress, 
like a large hunting dog. I did not dare to jest with him. I 
could hardly believe that he is only one year older than I, and 
when he said “Goodbye” at the door, with that face which 
always looks ridiculous, I came very near saying to him : 
“Good afternoon, sir,” as I would to a man. I told my 
father about it afterward, when I was at home: “ I do not under¬ 
stand it; Stardi has no talent, he lacks good manners, he has a 
ridiculous looking face, still he imposes respect upon me.” 
And my father answered: “ It is because he has character.” 
And I added: “ In the hour that I have been with him, he 
has not said fifty words; he has not shown me any toy; he has 
not laughed once; yet, I was glad to be there.” And my father 
answered: “ It is because you esteem him.” 


THE SON OF THE BLACKSMITH 

Yes, and I esteem Precossi also; and it is not enough to say 
that I esteem him. Precossi, that little thin fellow, who has 
languid but good eyes and a frightened look, is the son of a 
blacksmith. He is so timid that he says to every one, ‘ ‘ Excuse 
me,” but he studies almost too much. His father returns 
home drunk and beats him without any reason whatever; throws 
his books and copy-books around with a blow of the hand; and 



the heart of a boy 


79 


sometimes Precossi comes to school with black and blue marks 
on his face, and his eyes red from crying. But one can never 
make him tell that his father has beaten him. His companions 
say to him: 

“ It is your father who has beaten you,” And he answers 
immediately: “ No, that is not true! ” in order not to disgrace 
his father. 

‘ ‘ It was not you who burned this sheet of paper, ’ ’ the 
master said, showing him his lesson half burned. 

“ Yes,” he answered ” I let it fall in the fire.” 

Still, we well knew that his father, being drunk, had upset 
the lamp on the table with a kick while Precossi was writing 
his lesson. 

He lives in the garret of our house on the other side of the 
stairway. The janitor’s wife tells my mother everything. One 
day my sister Silvia heard him from the balcon y crying in ter¬ 
ror ; his father had sent him headlong down the stairs because 
he had asked him for money to buy a grammar. His father 
drinks and does not work, and his family are starving all the 
time. 

How often does Precossi come to school with an empty 
stomach and nibbles in secret the small loaf which Gar- 
rone has given him, or an apple which the little teacher with 
the red feather has presented to him ; she was his teacher in 
the first lower class. But he never says: ” I am hungry, my 
father does not give me enough to eat.” 

His father calls for him sometimes when he passes the 
school. He has a fierce face, with his hair over his eyes and a 
cap worn on the back of his head, and he is often unsteady on 
his legs ; the poor boy trembles when he sees him coming, but 
nevertheless he runs to meet him, smiling, and his father acts as 
though he did not see him but was thinking of something else. 

Poor Precossi! He mends his torn copy-books, borrows 
books to study the lesson, patches up the fragments of his shirt 
with pins. It is pitiful to see him in the gymnastic class, wearing 


80 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


shoes that are so large that he can dance inside them, and with 
those long trousers which drag on the ground when he walks, 
with a jacket too long for him, and those huge sleeves turned 
back to the elbow. He studies and does his best and would be 
one of the first in the class if he could quietly work at home. 

This morning he came to school with the mark of a finger 
nail on his cheek, and all the boys said to him: It is your 

father, you cannot deny it this time; it is your father who did 
that. Tell the principal and he will have him called before the 
police magistrate.” But he arose and with a voice trembling 
with indignation, said: “ No, it is not true ! It is not true ! 
My father never strikes me!” 

During the lesson, the tears fell on his book, but if any 
one looked at him, he made an effort to smile that he might not 
show his feelings. Poor Precossi! To-morrow, Derossi, Co- 
retti, and Nelli are coming to my house, to have lunch with me. 
I want to ask Precossi to come also. I would like to give him 
some books and to turn the house upside down to amuse him ; 
and I would fill his pocket with fruit, so that I might see him 
happy for once. Poor Precossi, who is so kind and good, and 
who has so much courage ! 

A NICE VISIT 

Thursday the 12th. 

This was one of the finest Thursdays in the year. At two 
o’clock sharp, Derossi, Coretti, and Nelli, the little hunchback, 
came to my house; Precossi’s father would not allow him to 
come. Derossi and Coretti were still laughing because they 
had met Crossi,—the boy with the withered arm and red hair,— 
the son of the green vegetable woman, in the street; he was 
carrying a big cabbage in order to sell it so that with the soldo 
he received he might buy a pen-holder, and he was so happy 
because his father has written from America that they may 
expect him back any day. Oh, how happy were the two 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


81 


liours which we passed together ! Derossi and Coretti are the 
two jolliest boys in school, and my father fell in love with them. 
Coretti wore his chocolate-colored knit jacket and his cat-skin 
cap. He is a lively fellow, he always wants to be doing some¬ 
thing, stirring up something, putting something in motion. 
He had already carried half a wagon load of wood early in the 
morning; still he galloped all over the house, observing every¬ 
thing and talking all the time, nimble and quick like a squir¬ 
rel; and going to the kitchen, he asked the cook how much we 
paid for our wood by the ‘ ‘ myriagramme, ’ ’ and said that his 
father sold it at forty-five centesimi. He always speaks of his 
father who was a soldier in the 49 th regiment at the battle of 
Custozza, where he fought in the army of Prince Humbert. 
Coretti is so gentle in his manner—It does not matter that he 
was born and brought up surrounded by wood, he has a kind 
heart, as my father says. Derossi amused us very much ; he 
knows his geography like a teacher, and he would close his 
eyes and say: 

“ Behold, I see all Italy ; the Appennines which extend to 
the Ionian Sea, the rivers which flow here and there, the white 
cities, the gulfs, the blue bays and the green hills.” And, he 
told rapidly and in order the correct names, as if he were read¬ 
ing them from a paper. We all stood in admiration, looking 
at him with that head, covered with blonde curls, held high, 
and his eyes closed. So straight and handsome and dressed in 
black with gilt buttons, he looked like a statue. In an hour, 
he had learned by heart almost three pages which he must 
recite the day after to-morrow at the anniversary of the funeral 
of King Vittorio. Even Nelli looked at him with admiration 
and affection as he wrapped the folds of his black rain-coat 
around him, and smiled with those clear and mournful eyes. 
That visit gave me much pleasure and left me something like 
two bright spots in mind and heart. I was also pleased, when 
they left, to see poor Nelli between the other two, large and 
•strong, who carried him in their arms, making him laugh as I 


62 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


never saw him laugh before. Returning to the dining-room, I 
noticed that the picture of Rigoletto, the hunchbacked buffoon, 
was no longer there; my father had taken it away so that Nelli 
should not see it. 


THE FUNERAL, OF VITTORIO EMANUEEE 

Tuesday the ijth. 

To-day at two o’clock, as soon as I entered the school, the 
teacher called Derossi, who went to the teacher’s desk facing 
us and began to speak in a vibrating tone of voice, raising it 
by degrees and flushing in the face: 

“Four years ago, on this very day, at this very hour, there 
arrived in front of the Pantheon in Rome the funeral car which 
carried the body of Vittorio Kmanuele, the first king of Italy, 
who died after having reigned twenty-nine years, during which 
time the great Italian country, divided into seven different 
states and oppressed by strangers and tyrants, had been incor¬ 
porated into one single state, independent and free—a reign 
which he had made illustrious with valor, with loyalty, with 
boldness in danger, with wisdom in triumph, and with con¬ 
stancy in misfortune. 

‘ ‘ The funeral car arrived, laden with wreaths after having 
gone through Rome under a shower of flowers, in the silence 
of an immense and sorrowing multitude, which had come from 
all parts of Italy; preceded by a legion of generals, ministers, 
and others; followed by a retinue of crippled veterans, a forest 
of flags and the representatives of three hundred cities; by every¬ 
thing which embodied the power and the glory of the people; it 
arrived in front of that august temple where his tomb was await¬ 
ing him. In that moment, while the cuirassiers lifted the bier 
from the car, in that moment, Italy was giving her last fare¬ 
well to her dead king ; to her old king who had loved her so 
much; the last farewell to her soldier, to her father; the last 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


83 


farewell to the most prosperous twenty-nine years of her 
history. 

‘ ‘ It was a great and solemn moment. The eyes, the souls of 
all were quivering between the bier and the flags of the eighty 
regiments of the Italian army, which were draped with crepe 
and carried by eighty officers, drawn up in a line to form a 
passage, representing all Italy; eighty emblems which reminded 
them of the dead, of torrents of blood, of our most holy sacrifices, 
of our most tremendous grief. The bier, borne by the cuiras¬ 
siers, passed them and they all were lowered together in an act 
of salute; the flags of the new regiments and the old and tom 
flags of Goito, Pastrengo, Santa Lucia, Novara, Crimea, Pales- 
tro, San Martino, and Castelfidardo; eighty black crepes fell 
and hundreds of medals shook over the coffin, and that sono¬ 
rous but confused uproar stirred the blood of all those present, 
like the sound of a thousand human voices which were saying 
together: ‘ Farewell, good king, loyal king ! You will live 

in the hearts of your people as long as the sun shines over 
Italy ! ’ After this, the flags were raised towards the sky, 
and Vittorio entered into the immortal glory of the tomb. ” 


FRANTI EXPELLED FROM SCHOOL 

Saturday the 21st. 

There was only one boy who could laugh while Derossi spoke 
of the funeral of the king, and this one was Franti. I detest 
him. He is a coward. When the father of a boy comes to the 
school to reprove his son, he rejoices over it; when one cries, 
he laughs. He trembles in the presence of Garrone, and beats 
the Little Mason because he is small; he torments Grossi be¬ 
cause he has a withered arm; he jeers at Precossi, whom every 
one else respects; he even sneers at Robetti, the boy of the sec¬ 
ond-class who walks on crutches from having saved a child. 
He provokes all those who are weaker than himself, and 
when he fights he grows ferocious and tries to harm his op- 


84 


THE HEART OF A BOA 


ponent. There is something repulsive in that low forehead, in 
those turbid eyes, that he keeps almost hidden under the front 
of his cap of wax cloth. He fears nothing; laughs in the face 
of the teacher; steals when he gets a chance; denies everything 
with a straight face, and is always quarreling with somebody. 
He takes pins to school to prick his neighbors; tears the but¬ 
tons off his jacket and off the other boys’ jackets and then 
gambles them away. His satchel and copy-books are soiled 
and torn, his ruler is battered, and his pen-holder is half 
chewed up. His nails are bitten and his clothes are covered 
with grease spots and with rents that he got while fighting. 
He hates school, hates his school-mates, and hates the teacher. 
At times, the teacher feigns not to notice his rascalities, and 
then he does even worse. When the teacher treats him kindly, 
the boy makes fun of him for it. Once the master said terrible 
words to the boy, then the latter covered his face with his hands 
and pretended to be crying, but he was laughing. He was sus¬ 
pended from school for three days, but he returned more insolent 
and wicked than he was before. Derossi said to him one day: 
“ Do stop that! do you not see how that the teacher suffers? ” 
And he threatened to stick a nail into Derossi’s stom¬ 
ach. But this morning he was expelled from school like 
a dog. While the teacher was giving Garrone the rough copy 
ofth z Sardinian Drummer-Boy, the monthly story for Janu¬ 
ary, to transcribe, Franti threw on the floor a petard which ex¬ 
ploded, making the school-room resound as from a discharge 
of guns. The whole class was startled. The teacher rose to 
his feet and cried: 

“Franti! leave the school! ” 

He answered: “ No, it was not I! ” But he laughed, and 
the teacher repeated: 

“ Teave! ” 

‘ ‘ I will not leave, ’ * he answered. 

Then the teacher lost his temper and, grasping him by the 
arms, he tore him from his bench. He tried to resist, grinding 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


85 


his teeth, and was carried out by force. The teacher carried 
him to the principal and then returned to the class and sat at 
his desk, and held his head in his hands, all out of breath, with 
such a worn and grieved expression in his face that it was 
painful to look at him. 

“ After thirty years that I have been teaching! ” he ex¬ 
claimed sadly, shaking his head. No one breathed. His hands 
were trembling with wrath, and the straight wrinkle in the 
middle of his forehead was so deep that it looked like a scar. 
Poor teacher! They all felt sorry for him. Derossi rose and 
said: 

‘ ‘ Signor master, do not be so sorrowful, we love you. ” And 
then he looked a little more serene and said: 

“Let us proceed with our lesson, boys.’' 


THE SARDINIAN DRUMMER-BOY 
(monthly story) 

During the first day of the battle of Custozza, on the twenty- 
fourth of July, 1848 , about sixty soldiers of an infantry regi¬ 
ment of our army went to the top of a hill to occupy a solitary 
house. They were suddenly assailed by two companies of 
Austrian soldiers, who showered on them bullets from every 
side. Our soldiers were hard pressed to find refuge in the 
house and had time only to hastily barricade the doors, after 
having left some dead and wounded on the outside. Having 
barred the doors, our men hastened to the windows on the 
ground floor and commenced a brisk discharge at the enemy, 
who approached little by little, having arranged themselves in 
a semi-circle, and returning the fire vigorously. The sixty 
Italian soldiers were commanded by two subaltern officers and 
a captain, an old man, tall and austere, with white hair and 
mustache. They had with them a little Sardinian drummer- 
boy, a lad a little over fourteen years old, who looked to be 
scarcely twelve. He had a small olive brown face, with two 



86 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


deep little eyes which glittered with animation. The cap¬ 
tain from a room on the first floor commanded the defence, 
giving his orders like pistol shots, and no sign of emotion could 
be seen in that passive face. The little drummer-boy, rather 
pale but steady on his legs, having jumped upon a chair, leaned 
against the side wall and stretched his neck to look outside the 
window. He saw through the smoke the white uniforms of 



the Austrians as they slowly advanced. The house was situ¬ 
ated on the summit of a steep incline and had but one little 
high window in the roof on the side of the slope. The Aus¬ 
trians did not threaten the house from that side; the slope was 
unencumbered and the fusilade only beat the front and two 
sides of the house. 

But it was a terrible fusilade. A shower of bullets fell out¬ 
side, and inside cracked the ceilings, the furniture, the shut¬ 
ters and the door frames, filling the air with pieces of wood. 















THE HEART OF A BOY 


87 


plaster, broken glass, whizzing, rebounding, breaking every¬ 
thing, and making an uproar enough to burst one’s skull. 
From time to time, one of the soldiers who were firing from the 
windows would fall, crashing back upon the floor, and be taken 
aside. Some staggered from room to room, pressing their hands 
over their wounds. In the kitchen there was a dead man with 
his forehead cut open. The semi-circle of the enemy was draw¬ 
ing nearer and nearer together. 

At a certain point, the captain, who had been impassive 
until then, began to grow uneasy and was seen rushing out of 
the room, followed by a sergeant. After three or four minutes 
the sergeant came running back and asked for the drummer- 
boy, making him a sign to follow him. The boy rushed up 
the wooden ladder and entered with the sergeant into a bare 
attic, where he saw the captain, who was writing with a pencil 
upon a piece of paper, leaning upon the little window. At his 
feet upon the floor there was a rope which had been used to draw 
water from the well. The captain folded up the sheet of paper 
and said brusquely, looking sharply at the boy with his cold 
grey eyes, before which all soldiers trembled: “Drummer- 
boy! ” 

The drummer-boy put his hand to his visor. 

The captain said: “ Have you any courage ? ” 

The eyes of the boy flashed. 

“ Yes, captain,” he replied. 

“ Took down there,” said the captain, pushing him to the 
little window, “ down the plain, near the houses of Villafranca, 
where there is a glimmer of bayonets. There are our men, 
motionless. Take this note, grasp the rope, descend from the 
little window, rush down the slope, through the fields, and 
when you reach our men, give this note to the first officer 
whom you meet. Throw off your strap and your knap¬ 
sack.” 

The drummer-boy threw off the strap and the knapsack, 
put the note in his breast pocket; the sergeant flung out the 


88 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


rope, holding one end of it fast in his hands; the captain helped 
the boy to get through the little window, with his back turned 
to the open country. 

“Lookout,” he said, “the salvation of this detachment 
rests upon your courage and upon your legs! ” 

“ Trust in me, captain,” replied the boy, as he let himself 
down. 

“Lean down on the slope side,” the captain said, again 
clutching at the rope together with the sergeant. 

“ Do not falter.” 

“God help you.” 

In a few moments the drummer-boy was on the ground, the 
sergeant pulled up the rope and disappeared, the captain 
stepped impetuously to the window and saw the boy flying 
down the incline. 

He thought he had succeeded in running without being ob¬ 
served, when five or six little clouds which rose from the 
ground in front and from behind him, warned the captain that 
the boy had been seen by the Austrians, who were shooting at 
him from the top of the hill. Those little clouds were dust 
cast up by the bullets. But the little drummer-boy continued 
to run swiftly; all of a sudden he dropped. “ He is killed! ” 
roared the captain, biting his fist. He had barely uttered 
these words, when he saw the boy get up again. “Ha! it is 
only a fall ! ” he mumbled to himself and breathed again. The 
little drummer-boy had begun to run with all his might, but 
he limped. “ He must have turned his ankle,” thought the 
captain. Another little cloud arose here and there around the 
boy, but each time at a further distance from him. “ He is 
safe! ” the captain exclaimed in triumph, but he kept on fol¬ 
lowing him with his eyes, trembling; because if he did not 
reach the soldiers very soon with the note, asking succor, all 
his soldiers would be killed, or he would be obliged to surren¬ 
der and give himself up as a prisoner with the others. 

The boy ran quickly for a little time, then slackened his 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


89 


pace and limped, then he would start to run again, each time 
more fatigued, and every once in awhile he would stumble and 
pause. 

“ Perhaps a bullet has grazed him,” thought the captain, 
who was observing all his movements. Quivering and excited, 
he spoke to him as though he might hear him. He measured 
in a restless way, with a burning eye, the distance intervening 
between the running boy and the gleaming of the weapons, 
which he saw down below in the plain in the middle of the 
corn-fields, gilded by the sun. In the meanwhile, he heard 
the uproar of the bullets in the room below; the imperious and 
encouraging cries of the officers and of the sergeant; the lament¬ 
ations of the wounded; the breaking of the furniture and the 
plaster. “Go on! Courage!” he cried, following with his 
eyes the little drummer-boy at a distance. 

* ‘ Go ahead ! Run ! Oh, he stops, that cursed boy ! Ah ! 
he begins to run again.” 

An officer came to tell him, panting, that the enemy with¬ 
out interrupting the fusilade, were hoisting a white cloth to 
intimate surrender. ‘ ‘ Ret it not be answered ! he cried, 
without taking his eyes off the drummer boy, who was already 
in the plain but not running any longer, and seeming to drag 
himself along with difficulty. ‘ 4 Go ahead ! Run ! ” said the cap¬ 
tain, clinching his teeth. “ Run, if you have to die, you rascal, 
but run!” and he uttered a terrible oath. “ Ah ! infamous 
child! he has seated himself, that poltroon!” The boy, 
whose head up to this time he had seen above the corn¬ 
field, had disappeared as if he had fallen. After a moment 
his head came up again, but he was soon lost behind the 
hedges and the captain saw him no more. 

Then the captain came down impetuously; the bullets were 
showering, the rooms were crowded with the wounded, 
some of whom were whirling around like drunken men, clutch¬ 
ing pieces of furniture; the walls and the floor were stained 
with blood, and bodies were lying across the doors; the lieu- 


90 


THE HEART OF A. BOY 


tenant had his right arm broken by a bullet; the smoke and the 
dust filled everything. 

“ Courage ! ” cried the captain. “ Stand to your place ! 
Succor is coming ! Keep up your courage ! ” 

The Austrians had come nearer and nearer the house; one 
could see through the smoke their contorted faces, and could 
hear among the crashing of the firing their wild cries, which 
were insulting, suggesting surrender, threatening the soldiers. 
Some of the frightened soldiers would leave the windows, and 
the sergeant would push them forward again, but the firing 
from the defense was growing weaker. Discouragement was 
visible on all faces; it was no longer possible to keep up a 
resistance. 

Suddenly, the firing of the Austrians slackened, and a thun¬ 
dering voice cried, first in German and then Italian ! ‘ ‘ Sur¬ 

render ! ”—“ No ! ” howled the captain from the window, and 
the fusilade re-commenced more thickly and furiously from 
both sides. Other soldiers fell. Already, more than one win¬ 
dow was without defenders; the fatal moment was imminent ! 
The captain cried in a despairing voice: 

“ 'They are not coming ! They are not coming ! ” and ran 
around furiously, bending his sword with his convulsive hand, 
ready to die; suddenly the sergeant, rushing down from the 
garret, uttered a loud cry of joy, shouting to the captain: 

“They are coming ! They are coming ! ” 

“ They are coming ! ” repeated the captain joyfully. 

At that cry, all those who were unhurt, as well as the 
wounded, the sergeant and officers rushed to the windows, and 
the resistance became more furious than before. In a few 
moments, a certain hesitation was noticed and a beginning 
disorder among the foe. Quickly, the captain assembled a 
little troop in the room on the ground floor to make an exit 
with the bayonet. Then he ran up to the little window again. 
Hardly had he reached it, when they heard a hasty tramping 
of feet accompanied with a formidable hurrah, and from the 














THE HEART OF A BOY 


91 


windows, they saw coming through the smoke the double- 
pointed hats of the Italian carabineers, a squadron rushing 
forward at great speed, and the lightning flash of blades whirl¬ 
ing in the air and falling on heads, on shoulders, on backs. 
Then the captain darted out from the door with lowered bayo¬ 
nets. The enemy wavered and were thrown into confusion and 
disorder. They hastily retreated, and the ground was left un¬ 
encumbered, the house was free, and two battalions of Italian 
infantry and two cannons occupied the hill. 

The captain, with the soldiers that remained, rejoined his 
regiment, fought again and was slightly wounded in his left 
hand by a ricochet bullet during the last assault with the 
bayonet. The day ended with a victory for our men. 

But the day after, having recommenced the fight, the 
Italians were overpowered, in spite of a valorous resistance, by 
the overwhelming numbers of the Austrians; and, on the 
morning of the 26th, they had to retreat sadly toward the 
Mincio river. 

The captain, although wounded, made his way on foot with 
the soldiers, tired and silent, and arriving toward sunset at 
Goito, on the Mincio, looked immediately for his lieutenant, 
who had been taken up with his broken arm by our ambulance 
and who had arrived there before him. Some one had shown 
him the church where a field hospital had been improvised. 
He went there. The church was filled with wounded, lying 
in two rows on beds and mattresses stretched on the floor. Two 
physicians and several nurses were coming and going, busily 
occupied, and one could hear suppressed groans and cries. As 
soon as he entered, the captain halted and looked around for 
his officer. 

At that moment he heard himself called by a faint voice 
very near him: ‘ ‘ Captain! ’ ’ 

He turned around; it was the little drummer-boy. 

He was stretched on a cot bed, covered up to the breast with 
a rough window curtain in red and white squares, and with his 


92 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


arms out; pale and thin, but with his eyes still sparkling like 
two black gems. 

“Is it you?” asked the captain rather sharply, although 
amazed. “ Bravo, you did your duty.’’ 

‘ ‘ I did all that was possible, ’ ’ answered the boy. 

“ Are you wounded ? ” asked the captain, looking for his 
officer in the beds near by. 

“ What could I do? ” said the boy, who gained courage by 
speaking, while feeling the satisfaction of having been wounded 
for the first time; under other circumstances he would hardly 
have dared to open his mouth in the presence of that captain. 
“ I did my best to run bending down; they saw me at once. I 
would have arrived twenty minutes sooner if they had not hit 
me. Fortunately I soon found a captain of the staff and 
gave him your note. But it was a very hard matter to run 
after that caress. I was dying with thirst; I was afraid that I 
would never arrive, and was crying with rage, thinking that 
every minute delayed was sending another soul to the other 
world. But that is enough; I have done what I could; I am 
satisfied. But, with your permission, look at yourself, captain, 
you are losing blood.” 

And truly, from the badly bandaged hand of the captain 
some drops of blood trickled down through his fingers. 

“ Do you wish me to tie up your bandage, captain? Hold 
out your hand a minute.” 

The captain held out his left hand and stretched the right 
one to assist the boy in untying the knot and tying it again; 
but the boy, raising himself from his pillow with difficulty, 
grew pale and had to lean his head back again. 

“ Enough, enough,” the captain said, looking at him and 
drawing the bandaged hand away that the boy wanted to hold. 
“ Attend to your own affairs instead of those of others; things 
that are not severe may become serious. ” x 

The drummer-boy shook his head. 

“But you,” said the captain, looking at him attentively, 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


93 


“ You must have lost a great deal of blood to be as weak as 
you are.” 

‘ ‘ Lost much blood ? ’ ’ replied the lad with a smile. * ‘ I have 
lost more than blood. Look! ” 

And he pulled down the cover that was over him. 

The captain started back and stopped, horrified. The lad 
had but one leg left, the left one had been amputated above 
his knee and the stump was bandaged with bloody cloths. 

At that moment the military surgeon, a little fleshy fellow 
in short sleeves, passed by. “Ah! captain,” said he quickly, 
pointing to the drummer-boy, ‘ ‘ a most unfortuate case. A leg 
that might have been easily saved if he had not forced it in 
that foolish way; a cursed inflammation; it had to be cut off 
away up here. Oh! but he is a brave lad, I assure you; he 
has not shed a tear; he has not uttered a cry. I was proud 
that it was an Italian boy while I was performing the 
operation; upon my honor, he belongs to a good race, by 
heavens! ” And he went away. 

The captain frowned and looked fixedly at the boy, putting 
the cover back over him; then slowly, as though unconsciously, 
raised his hand to his head and took off his cap. 

“Captain! ” exclaimed the astonished boy, “ what are you 
doing, captain, and that for me? ” 

And then that rough soldier, who had never said a mild 
word to one of his subalterns, answered, with an indescribably 
affectionate and sweet voice: “I am nothing but a captain, 
you are a hero! ’ ’ 

Then he threw himself with open arms on the drummer-boy 
and pressed him three times upon his heart. 


THE LOVE OF OUR COUNTRY 

Tuesday the 24th. 

As the story of the little drummer-boy has shaken thy heart , 
it ought to have been easy for thee this mojning to write a good 


94 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


composition for the examination: ‘ ‘ Why Do You Love Italy f ” 
Why do I love Italy f Did not a hundred answers present them¬ 
selves to thee ? I love Italy because my mother is Italian, because 
the blood which runs in my veins is Italian, because the dead, 
whom my mother mow ns and whom my father venerates, are 
buried in this soil, because the city where I was born, the language 



that I speak, the 
books which educate 
me, because my 
brother, my sister, 
and all my compan¬ 
ions, and the great 
people among whom 


I live, the beautiful country which surrounds me, and all that 1 
see, that I love, that I admire, is Italian. Thou canst not yet en¬ 
tirely feel this affaction. But thou wilt fully do so when thou art a 
man; when, returning home from a long trip abroad, after a long 
absence, leaning over the bulwarks of the ship, thou wilt see on the 
horizon the blue mountains of thy country; thou wilt feel it then, 







THE HEART OF A BOY 


95 


in the impetuous flood of tenderness which will fill thine eyes with 
tears, and which will wring from thine heart a cry. Thou wilt 
feel it in some distant city, in the impulse of thy soul which will 
push thee in an unknown crowd toward an unknown workman 
from whom thou hast heard, in passing, a word in thy native 
tongue. Thou wilt feel it in that proud and painful moment 
when, with indignation which brings the blood to thy forehead, 
thou wilt hear thy country insulted by a stranger. Thou wilt feel 
it more stiongly and valiantly the day on which hostile people shall 
raise a tempest of fire upon thy country. Then thou wilt behold 
arms on every side, and the young men running by legions, and 
the fathers kissing their sons and saying: ‘ • Courage ! ’ ’ and the 
mothers saying good-bye to the youths, crying: ‘ ‘ Conquer ! ’ ’ 
Thou wilt feel it as a divine joy, if thou shouldst ever have the 
fortune to see entering thy city the lessened regiment, ragged, terri¬ 
ble, with the splendor of victory in their eyes, and their banners 
torn by bullets, followed by a crowd of brave fellows, with their 
bandaged heads and theh stumps of mutilated limbs, in the midst 
of a throng which will cover them with flowers, with blessings, with 
kisses. Thou wilt then understand what is love for thy country. 
Thou wilt feel it then, Enrico. It is such a great and sacred 
thing that, if one day I should see thee returning home safely 
from battle foughtfor thy country; thee, safe! thou , who art my flesh 
and soul! if I should know that thou hadst preserved thy life, that 
thou hadst fled from death, I, thy father, who receive thee with a 
cry of joy when thou returnest from school, I would receive thee 
with a cry of anguish, and could no longer love thee, and I would 

die with that poignard in my heart. 

r Thy Father. 


ENVY 


Wednesday the 25th. 

It wasDerossi who wrote the best composition on “ The 
Love of Our Country.” And Votini thought he was sure of 


96 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


getting the first medal! I like Votini very much, although he 
is too vain and poses too much, but he displeases me, since sit¬ 
ting near his desk, I notice how envious he is of Derossi. He 
would like to compete with him, but he cannot do it, for Derossi 
is ten times as clever in every way, and Votini bites his fingers 
with rage. Carlo Nobis also envies him; but he is so proud 
that he will not show it. Votini, on the other hand, embitters 
himself. He complains of the difficulties at home, and says 
that the teacher is unjust; and when Derossi replies to questions 
so promptly and well, as he always does, Votini’s face clouds 
over, he bends his head, pretends not to hear him, and makes 
an effort to laugh; but it is a bitter laugh. All the boys know 
how he feels, and when the teacher praises Derossi, they all 
turn around and look at Votini, who swallows his venom, and 
the Tittle Mason makes the hare face at him. This morning, 
for instance, things went wrong with him ; the teacher entered 
the school room and announced the result of the examination : 
“ Derossi, ten-tenths and first medal. ” Votini gave aloud 
sneeze. The teacher looked at him; it was easy to understand 
the matter. 

‘'Votini,” he said, “do not let the serpent of envy enter 
into your heart. It is a serpent which gnaws the brain and 
mars the soul. ’ ’ 

All looked at him except Derossi; Votini tried to answer but 
could not. 

He sat there as though paralyzed, with his white face bent 
down. 

Then, after the teacher began giving the lesson, he com¬ 
menced to write in large letters upon a small piece of paper: 
lam not envious of those who gain the first medal through deceit 
and favoritism. It was a note that he wished to send to Derossi. 
In the meanwhile, I saw that Derossi’s neighbors were plotting 
among themselves, whispering to each other, and one of them 
cut with his penknife a large paper medal upon which a black 
serpent had been drawn. Votini also noticed this. 









* 


A 





THE HEART OF A BOY 


97 


The teacher left the room for a few minutes ; suddenly, all 
the boys near Derossi got up and left their desks to go and 
present the medal to Votini in a solemn way. The whole class 
was prepared for a scene. 

Votini trembled like a leaf. 

Derossi exclaimed: “ Give it to me ! ” 

“ So much the better,” they replied, “ it is you who ought 
to give it to him.” 

Derossi took the medal and tore it into many pieces. At 
that moment, the teacher returned and the class resumed the 
lesson. I kept my eyes on Votini, he had become as red as a 
burning coal; he took the little note and slowly, as if absent 
minded, rolled it into a ball, put it into his mouth, chewed it 
for a while, then spit it out under the desk. 

Coming out of school and passing in front of Derossi, Vo¬ 
tini, who was a little confused, dropped his blotting paper. 
Derossi kindly picked it up, put it in Votings satchel, and 
helped him to fasten his strap. Votini did not dare to raise 
his head. 


FRANTI’S MOTHER 

Saturday the 28 th. 

However, Votini is not yet changed. Yesterday, during 
the lesson in religion, in the presence of the principal, the 
teacher asked Derossi if he knew by heart the two verses in 
the Reader, beginning with 

“ Where’er I turn my gaze, 

’ Tis Thee, great Lord, I see.” 

Derossi answered “ No, ” and Votini quickly said: ‘ ‘ I know 
them,” with a smile as though to taunt Derossi. 

But he was balked, as he was not able to recite the chapter; 
for suddenly Franti’s mother, followed by the principal, .en¬ 
tered the room, with her grey hair disheveled, all out of 
breath, and all wet with snow. She was pushing forward her 


98 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


son who had been suspended from school for eight days. What 
a sad scene we had to witness! The poor woman threw her¬ 
self almost on her knees in front of the principal, clasping her 
hands in a supplicating manner: 

“Oh, signor principal, grant me this favor, allow my boy 
to be readmitted to the school! I have kept him hidden at 
home for three days; the Lord knows what may happen if his 
father discovers everything. He may kill him. Have mercy, 
as I know not what to do! I beg you with my whole soul! ’ ’ 

The principal tried to take her out, but she resisted, all the 
time begging and crying: 

“Oh! if you knew the grief and care that this son has 
caused me, you would be moved to pity! I hope he may 
change. I have not long to live, signor principal. Death is 
near me; yet I should love to see him improve before I die, be¬ 
cause ” —and she burst into tears — “ it is my child; I love 
him; I would die in despair; take him back once more, signor 
principal, in order that such misfortune may not come to the 
family. Do it for charity to a poor woman! ’ ’ and she covered 
her face with her hands and sobbed. 

Franti, impassive, stood with bowed head. The principal 
looked at him, remained in thought for a moment and then he 
said: 

“ Franti, go to your place.” 

The woman was consoled. She took her hands from her 
face and began saying: “Thanks, thanks,” without giving 
the principal a chance to talk, and started toward the door, 
wiping her eyes, and saying hastily: “ My child, I warn you. 
May all have patience. Thanks, signor principal; you have 
done an act of charity. Good bye, my child. Good day, boys. 
Thanks, until I see you again, signor teacher, and do forgive a 
poor woman.” 

Casting, from the door, another supplicating glance at her 
son, she left, pulling up her shawl which was trailing after 
her, pale, bent down, her head trembling, and we could hear 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


99 


her cough as she was going down the stairs. During the silence 
of the class, the principal looked fixedly at Franti, and then 
said in an accent which made one shiver: 

“ Franti, you are killing your mother! ” 

All turned around to look at Franti, and that detestable boy 
was smiling. 


HOPE 

Sunday the 25th. 

‘ ‘ It was very beautiful, Enrico, the impetuosity with which 
thou hast thrown thyself upon the heart of thy mother, upon your 
return from the religious school. The teacher has told thee many 
great and consoling things. God has thrown us into the arms of 
each other; therefore, he will not separate us; when I die , when 
thy father dies , we will not say to each other those terrible, 
despairing words: mamma , papa, Enrico , I will see thee no more! 
We will see each other again in another life, where he who has 
suffered in this life will be recompensed , where he who has loved 
much upon earth will find again the beloved souls in a world 
without faults, without tears, and without death; but we must 
render ourselves worthy of that other life. Listen, my child, every 
one of thy good actions, every one of thy loving thoughts for 
those who love thee, every courteous act toward thy companions, 
every kind deed, is a step toward that world; so is every sorrow and 
every grief \ for every grief is an atonement for a fault, every 
tear erases a stain. Resolve to be better each day and more lov¬ 
ing than the day before. Say every morning to thyself: 4 4 To¬ 
day I will do something that my conscience will approve of, and 
with which my father will be satisfied; something which will make 
me beloved by my companions , by my teacher, by my brother, and 
by others .” And ask that God may give thee strength to carry 
out thy resolutions: 4 4 Lord, I wish to be good and noble, cour¬ 
ageous, kind, and sincere; do help me to improve every opportun¬ 
ity, so that when my mother gives me her last kiss at night, I 



100 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


may be able to tell her: ‘ Thou kissest this evening a child more 
worthy and more honest than the one you kissed yesterday. ’ ’ 
Have always in thy mind the other Emico, immortal a7id 
blessed, so that you may live after this life , and do pray. Thou 
canst not imagine the sweetness that I experience , how much 
better thy mother feels when she sees her child with hands clasped 



in prayer. When I see thee praying, it seems impossible that no 
07 ie can look or listen to thee . / believe then more firmly that 

there is a Supreme kindness and an Infinite pity; I love more, I 
work with more ardor, I suffer with more courage, Iforgive with 
all my soul, and think serenely of death. Oh! God is great and 
kind. To hear once more the voice of thy mother, to meet again 




THE HEART OF A BOY 


101 


my children, to see again my Enrico, my blessed and immortal 
Enrico, to clasp him in an embrace which shall never be ended t 
never , never, through all eternity! Oh, do pray, let us pi ay, let 
us pray, ws love each other, W5 be good, let us endure with 
heavenly hobe in our souls, my adored child. 

Thy Mother : 


FEBRUARY 

A WELL AWARDED MEDAL 

Saturday the 4 th , 

This morning the superintendent of schools came to de¬ 
liver the medals. He is a gentleman with a white beard, 
dressed in black. He entered with the principal a few moments 
before the class was over, and sat next to the teacher. He 
questioned many, then he gave the first medal to Derossi; but, 
before bestowing the second medal, he paused a few moments 
to listen to the teacher and the principal, who were speaking to 
him in a low voice. All the boys were asking each other: 

‘ ‘ To whom will he give the second medal ? ’ ’ 

The superintendent then said aloud: “The second medal, 
this morning, is earned by the pupil Pietro Precossi, who has 
deserved it because of his work at home; because of his lessons; 
because of his penmanship, and owing to his behavior in 
general. ’ ’ 

They all turned to look at Precossi, and it was evident that 
they were pleased. Precossi arose, so confused that he did not 
seem to know where he was. 

“Come here,” said the superintendent. Precossi left his 
bench and went to the teacher’s desk. The superintendent 
looked attentively at that little wax-colored face and that lit¬ 
tle body, clothed in those ill-fitting garments, at those sad eyes, 
which avoided his gaze but which told their story of suffering. 



102 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


Then he said to him, in a voice full of affection, while attach¬ 
ing the medal to his breast. 

“ Precossi, I give you this medal. There is no one more 
worthy of wearing it than you. I award it not only to your 
intelligence and good will, I award it to your heart, to your 
courage, to your character, to a brave and good child. Is it 
not so ? ’ ’ he added, turning toward the class, ‘ ‘ that he has 
merited it on this account ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, yes,” they all answered in one voice. 

Precossi made a movement as though swallowing some¬ 
thing, and turned his eyes toward the benches, expressing 
great gratitude. 

“ Good, dear boy,” the superintendent said to him, “ may 
God protect you! ’ 9 

It was the hour to go out; our class left before the others. 
As soon as we were outside the door, whom did we see there in 
the large hall at the entrance ? The father of Precossi — the 
blacksmith — pale, badly clad, with an ugly look, with his 
hair over his eyes, his cap awry, and unsteady on his legs. 

The teacher saw him at once and whispered something to 
the superintendent; the latter looked in haste for Precossi, and, 
taking him by the hand, moved toward his father. The boy 
trembled. The boy and the principal approached the father 
and many of the pupils gathered around the group. 

“You are the father of this boy, are you not? ” asked the 
superintendent of the blacksmith, with a cheerful air, as if they 
were friends; and, without waiting for an answer: “I con¬ 
gratulate you. Look, he has won the second medal among 
fifty-four schoolmates. He has merited it in composition, in 
arithmetic, in everything. He is a child full of intelligence 
and good will, a brave lad who has gained the esteem and affec¬ 
tion of all. You may be proud of him, I assure you.” 

The blacksmith, who had been listening with his mouth 
wide open, looked straight at the superintendent and at the 
principal, then looked at his son, who stood before him trem- 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


103 


bling and with his eyes cast down. The father looked as if he 
remembered and understood then — for the first time — all he 
had caused the little fellow to suffer, and all the kindness, all 
the heroic constancy with which he had borne it. A certain 
stupid admiration shone in his face, then a saddened remorse, 
and finally a sorrowful and impetuous tenderness, and with a 
rough gesture, he clasped the child in his arms and pressed him 
against his breast. 

We passed before Precossi and invited him to come with 
Garrone and Crossi to visit us on Thnrsday; the others saluted 
him, some bestowed a caress upon him, others touched his 
medal, and all spoke a kind word to him. And the father 
looked at us stupefied, all the time holding the head of his son 
on his breast, while the boy softly sobbed. 


GOOD RESOLUTIONS 

Sunday the 5th. 

The medal bestowed upon Precossi has caused me a remorse. 
I have not yet earned one! Because sometimes I do not study, 
and I am dissatisfied with myself and the teacher; my father 
and mother are also dissatisfied. I no longer experience the 
pleasure I once felt in amusing myself, when I work unwill¬ 
ingly and then dart from my desk and run to play, as if I 
had not played for a month. I do not even sit at the table 
with my friends with the same content that I once felt. I al¬ 
ways hear that internal voice, like a shadow in my soul, 
which constantly tells me: “That is not right, that is not 
right.” 

I see, in the evening, going through the square, so many 
boys who are coming back from work, in the midst of groups of 
workmen, tired but merry, and who hasten their steps, impa¬ 
tient to get home to supper. They speak lightly, laughing 
and clapping their dark hands, soiled with coal or white with 
plaster, slapping one another on the shoulder. I think that 



104 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


they have worked from sunrise up to that hour. I see many 
others like them, who have worked all day on the top of roofs, 
or in front of furnaces, or among machines, or in the water, or 
even under the ground, eating nothing but a little bread, and 
I feel almost ashamed, I, who during that time have been 
doing nothing but scribbling unwillingly four little pages. Ah, 
I am discontented, indeed ! I well know that my father is 
displeased with me, and he would like to tell me so, but he 
feels sorry and waits a little longer—that dear father of mine 
who works so hard. Everything is yours, everything I see 
around the house, all that I touch, all that I wear, and all 
that I eat, all that teaches and amuses me; all this is the fruit 
of your work, and I do not work. All these have cost you 
many thoughts, privations and fatigues, and I do not toil. 
Ah, no; it is too unjust, and makes me feel ashamed. I want 
to begin from to-day; I want to put myself to study like 
Stardi, with his fists clasped on his temples and with closed 
teeth, to set myself to work with all the strength of my will and 
my heart. I want to conquer my drowsiness in the evening, 
get up early in the morning, exercise my brain without rest, 
pitilessly cast off laziness. I will toil, I will suffer, till I 
am ill, if need be. From now on I will put a stop to this lazy 
and worthless life which lowers me and saddens the others. 
Up, to work ! To work, with all my soul and with all my power! 
To work, that it may render my rest sweet, my recreations 
more pleasant, my meals more merry. To work again! and that 
will restore to me the pleasant smile of my teacher and the 
blessed kiss of my father. 


THE LITTLE RAILWAY TRAIN 

Friday the ioth 

Precossi and Garrone came to visit me yesterday. I think 
if they had been two sons of princes, they would not have been 
received with more delight. Garrone came for the first time. 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


105 


He is rather shy, and besides he feels awkward to be seen, as 
he is so tall and still belongs to the third class. We all 
went to open the door when the bell rang. Crossi did not 
come, because his father has at last arrived from America, 
after an absence of six years. My mother kissed Precossi. 
My father introduced him, saying, “Behold, this is not only 
a good boy, but he is also a man of honor and a gentleman.” 
And the boy bowed his large, shaggy head, smiling in a con¬ 
soling way to me. Precossi wore his medal, and was so 
happy because his father had gone back to work. It is five 
days since his father has taken any liquor. He wants 
to have Precossi all the time in his workshop to keep him 
company, and acts altogether like another man. 

We began to play; I brought out all my toys. Precossi 
stood in amazement before a railway train with an engine 
which runs by winding it up. He had never seen one before, 
and he devoured with his eyes those little yellow and red cars. 

I wound them up for him to play with, and he kneeled down 
to play, and did not raise his head any more. I have never 
seen him so interested and pleased. 

He said, “ Excuse me, excuse me,” to everything, motion¬ 
ing to us with his hands not to stop the engine, and he lifted 
and put down the cars with great care, as if they were made 
of glass. He was afraid of tarnishing them with his breath, 
and he polished them up again, examining them top and bot¬ 
tom, and smiling to himself. We all stood and looked at him. 
We were looking at that slender neck and those poor little ears, 
that I had seen bleeding one day, and that large jacket, which 
he wore with the sleeves turned over, and those two little 
sickly arms, which had been raised so many times to save his 
face from a beating. Oh, at that moment I would have thrown 
at his feet all my toys and all my books; I would have taken 
the last piece of bread from my mouth and given it to him; I 
would have undressed myself to clothe him; I would have 
fallen upon my knees to kiss him. 


106 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


‘ ‘ I will at least give him my little railroad train, ’ ’ I thought; 
but it was necessary to ask my father’s permission. At that 
moment I felt a bit of paper thrust into my hand. I looked 
at it. It was written in pencil by my father, and read. “ Pre - 
cossi has no toys. Does anything suggest itself to thy heart?" 

Instantly I seized the engine and the cars with both hands, 
and placed them in the arms of Precossi, saying: 

“ Take it; it is yours.” He looked at it, but did not un¬ 
derstand. 

‘ ‘ It is yours, ” I said. ‘ ‘ I make you a present of it.” 

Then he looked at my father and my mother, still more 
amazed, and asked, “ But why so ? ” 

My father said, ‘ ‘ Enrico gives it to you because he is your 
friend, because he likes you, and in order to celebrate your 
medal. ’ ’ 

Precossi timidly asked, “ May I take it home with me?” 

‘ ‘ Certainly, ’ ’ we all answered. 

He was already near the door, but still did not dare to go. 
He was so happy ! He was begging our pardon with trem¬ 
bling lips that smiled and laughed. Garrone helped him to 
wrap up the train in his handkerchief, and bending down, he 
made the things which he had in his pocket rattle. 

“Some day,” said Precossi to me, “ you will come to the 
workshop to see my father at work. I will give you some 
nails.” 

My mother put a little posy in the buttonhole of Garrone’s 
jacket for him to take to his mother in her name. Garrone 
told her, with his big voice, “Thanks,” without lifting his 
chin from his breast. But his noble and good soul shone from 
his eyes. 


pride 


Saturday the nth. 

Carlo Nobis cleans the sleeve of his coat affectedly when 
Precossi touches him when passing by! He is vanity incarnate, 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


107 


because his father is rich, but the father of Derossi is also rich ! 
He would like to have a desk all by himself, he is afraid that 
every one who comes near will soil him, he looks down upon 
everybody, and always has a contemptuous smile upon his lips. 
Woe to him who stumbles over his feet when we go marching 
out two by two ! For a mere trifle he flings an insulting word 
in your face, he threatens to send for his father to come to the 
school, and yet we know that his father gave him a severe 
lesson when he called the son of the charcoal man a ragged 
wretch ! I have never seen so much pride. No one speaks to 
him, no one says good bye when he goes out. There is no 
one who will prompt him when he does not know his lesson. 
He likes nobody and feigns to despise Derossi above all because 
he is the brightest boy, and Garrone because he is the most 
beloved. But Derossi pays no attention to him, no more than 
if he were not there, and when the boys tell him that Nobis 
has abused him, he answers: 

“ He is so full of such stupid pride that he does not even 
deserve my blows.” 

One day, when he was smiling disdainfully at Coretti s cat- 
skin cap, the latter remarked: 

“ Go to Derossi and learn how to be a gentleman ! ’ ’ 

Yesterday, he complained to the teacher because the Cala¬ 
brian boy touched his leg with his foot. The teacher asked 
the Calabrian boy if he had done this purposely. 

“ No, sir,” he answered frankly, and the teacher said: 

“ You are too fastidious, Nobis.” And Nobis replied with 
that vain air of his: 

“ I shall tell my father.” 

Then the teacher grew angry: “ Your father will tell you 
that you are wrong, as he has at other times, and that there is 
no one but the teacher who can j udge and punish in the school. ’ 
Then he added, pleasantly, “ Come, Nobis, change your ways; 
be good and courteous toward your companions. You see they 
are sons of workmen and of gentlemen; sons of the rich and of 


108 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


the poor. They are all fond of one another and treat one 
another like brothers, as they are. Why don’t you act as the 
others do ? It would cost you very little to be esteemed by all, 
and you would be so much better satisfied with yourself. 

“Well, have you nothing to answer?” Nobis, who had 
been listening with that disdainful smile, answered coldly: 

“No, sir/’ 

‘ ‘ Sit down ; ’ ’ said the teacher, ‘ ‘ I pity you. You are a boy 
without heart.” 

Everything seemed ended, when the “ Little Mason,” who 
sits on the first bench, turned his round face towards Nobis, who 
sits on the last bench, and made a hare face, so fine and funny, 
that the whole class burst into a shout of laughter. The 
teacher reprimanded him, but he was forced to put his hand 
over his mouth to conceal a smile, and Nobis also smiled but 
not pleasantly. 


THE WOUNDS OF WORK 

Monday the 13th. 

Nobis can be matched with Franti. Neither of them were 
moved by the terrible sight which passed under our eyes this 
morning. Coming out of school with my father, I was looking 
at some big boys of the second class who had thrown themselves 
on their knees to wipe off the ice with their cloaks and caps in 
order to slide swiftly, when we saw coming down the street a 
crowd of people, walking rapidly, all looking serious and fright¬ 
ened, and speaking in low voices. Among them were three po¬ 
licemen, and following these, two men were carrying a litter. 
The boys approached from every side. The crowd advanced 
toward us. Upon the litter was stretched a man as white as a 
corpse, with his head hanging over upon one shoulder and his 
hair stained with blood; and blood was also flowing from his 
mouth and ears. Alongside the litter walked a woman with 





















THE heart of a boy 


109 


a babe in her arms, who acted like a lunatic and cried from 


time to time : 

“He is dead! He is dead! He is dead! ” 

Behind the woman came a boy who had a satchel under his 
arm and was sobbing. 

‘ ‘ What has happened ? ’ ’ asked my father. 

A man near him answered: “ It is a mason who has fallen 
from the fourth story while he was at work.” 

The men who carried the litter stopped a moment. Many 
turned their faces away in horror. I saw the little school 
mistress with the red feather supporting the mistress of the 
upper first who had almost fainted. In the meantime, some¬ 
body pushed me with his elbow, it was the “ Little Mason,” 
pale and trembling like a leaf. He was surely thinking of his 
father. I also thought of that. When I am in school my 
mind is at ease; I know that my father is at home, sitting 
at his desk, far from danger; yet, how many of my com¬ 
panions are thinking that their fathers are working on a 
very high scaffold or near the wheels of a machine; and 
that a motion, a false step may cause their death!. They 
are like so many soldiers’ children, whose fathers are in daily 
peril. 

The “ Little Mason ” looked steadfastly and trembled more 
and more violently. 

My father noticed it and said: 

“ Go home, boy, go and see your father, and you will find 
him well and happy; go! ” 

The ‘ ‘ Little Mason ’ ’ went, turning his head at every step. 


In the meantime, the crowd began to move again and the 
woman was screaming in a heart-rending way: “ He is dead! 
He is dead! He is dead!” 

“ No, no, he is not dead,” they were telling her on every 
side. But she paid no attention and tore her hair in despair. 
I heard an indignant voice saying: “You laugh! ” and saw 
a whiskered man looking in the face of Franti, who was indeed 


110 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


smiling. Then the man knocked the boy’s cap off, saying: 
“ Uncover your head, you wicked boy, when a man who has 
been hurt through labor passes!” The crowd had already 
vanished and there was a long streak of blood in the middle of 
the street. 


THE PRISONER 

Friday the iyth. 

Ah! this is indeed the strangest case of the whole year. 
Yesterday my father took me to the Moncalieri suburbs to 
examine a villa to let for the coming summer (because this 
year we will not go to Chieri), and we found that the man who 
had the keys is a teacher as well as the secretary of the land¬ 
lord. He showed us the house and then he took us to his 
room, where he offered us something to drink. Upon the lit¬ 
tle table, between the glasses, was a wooden inkstand, conical 
in shape and carved in a peculiar way. 

Observing that my father was looking at it, the teacher 
said: “That inkstand is very precious to me. Would 
you like to know the history of it, sir?” and he told it 
to us. 

Years ago he was a teacher in Turin, and went every day 
during the winter to teach the prisoners in the district jail. 
He taught in the chapel of the jail, which is a round building. 
All around the high and bare walls are many little square win¬ 
dows with cross-bars of iron, each belonging to a little cell 
inside. 

He was teaching the lesson, walking up and down in the 
cold dark chapel, and his pupils were peeping through those 
holes with their copy-books against the iron bars, their faces 
only showing in the shadow—frightful, frowning countenances, 
with grey and rough beards and staring eyes, the faces of 
thieves and murderers. 





























































































































THE HEART OF A BOY 


111 


There was one among them, in cell No. 78, who was more 
attentive than the others and studied diligently. He looked at 
the teacher with eyes full of respect and gratitude. He was a 
young man with a black beard, and more unfortunate than 
wicked; a cabinet-maker, who, in a fit of rage at his master 
(who had wronged him many times) had thrown a plane at 
his master’s head, mortally wounding him, and on that account 
had been condemned to several years of seclusion. In three 
months he had learned to read and write, and he read con¬ 
tinually. The more he learned, it seemed, the better he be¬ 
came, and the more he repented of his crime. 

One day, at the end of his lesson, he made the teacher a 
sign to come to the little window, announcing that the next 
morning he would leave Turin to go and expiate his crime in 
the prisons of Venice; while saying good-bye he begged him 
with a humble and moved voice to allow him to touch his hand. 
The teacher offered him his hand, which he kissed and said 
“ Thanks ! Thanks ! ” and disappeared. The teacher drew 
back his hand, it was wet with tears. Since that time he had 
never seen him. 

Six years passed. * ‘ I was thinking of anything else rather 
than that unfortunate fellow,” said the teacher, “when, the 
day before yesterday, an unknown man came to the house. 
He had a long black beard and was poorly clad. He asked 
me: ‘Are you the signor master so and so?’ Who are 

you? I asked of him. ‘I am the prisoner of No. 78 / he 
answered. ‘ You taught me to read and write six years ago, 
do you remember? At the last lesson, you shook hands with 
me. Now, I have expiated my crime, and I am here begging 
you to kindly accept a remembrance of me, a little thing which 
I have worked at in prison; will you take it in memory of me, 
signor master ? ’ 

‘ ‘ I stood speechless. He thought that I would not accept it, 
and looked at me as if saying: ‘ Six years of suffering, are 
they not enough to cleanse.my hands? ’ and he looked at me 


112 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


with an expression of such deep sorrow that I instantly stretched 
out my hand and took the object. Here it is.” 

We looked attentively at the ink-stand. It seemed as 
though it had been carved with the point of a nail by dint of 
assiduous patience. There was carved upon it a pen across a 
writing book, and written around it, “To my teacher.—^Re¬ 
membrance of number 78.—Six years ! ” And below this 

writing, “Study and hope.”-The teacher said nothing 

more, and we left. 

All the way home, from Moncalieri to Turin, I could not 
chase from my mind that prisoner, leaning on the little window, 
that farewell to the master, and that poor ink-stand carved in 
jail, which told such a tale. I dreamed of it all night, and was 
still thinking of it this morning.-But I was far from guess¬ 

ing the surprise which awaited me at school! Hardly had I 
gone to my new bench next to Derossi, and had written the 
problem in arithmetic for the monthly examination, when I 
told my companion all the history of the prisoner and about 
the ink-stand and how it was made with the pen across the 
copy-book and that inscription around it: “Six years!” 
Derossi sprang up at those words and began to look first at me 
and then at Crossi, the son of the vegetable woman, who sat in 
the front bench with his back turned toward us, all absorbed 
in his problem. 

‘ ‘ Hush ! ” he said, then, softly taking me by the arm, 
“ Don’t you know it ? Crossi told me the day before yester¬ 
day of his having caught a glimpse of such a wooden ink-stand 
in the hands of his father, who had returned from America. 
Instead, he was in prison. Crossi was so small at the time of the 
crime that he does not remember, and his mother deceived 
him. He knows nothing of it. Let not a syllable of this 
escape you ! ” 

I stood there speechless, with my eyes staring at Crossi. 
Then Derossi solved his problem and passed it under the bench 
to Crossi and gave him a piece of paper, taking from his hand 
























THE HEART OF A BOY 


113 


the monthly story, Papa? s Nurse , which the teacher had given 
him to copy, in order to do the work for Crossi. He gave him 
some pens, patted his shoulder, and had me promise upon my 
honor that I would not say anything to anybody else, and 
when he left school he told me hurriedly : 

“Yesterday his father came to take him home, he may be 
there to-day ; do as I do.” 

We came to the street; Crossi’s father was there, standing 
a little aside, a man with a black beard which was sprinkled 
with white, badly clad, with a pensive and discolored face. 
Derossi shook Crossi’s hand in a way that all could see him, 
and said in a loud voice: “Till we meet again, Crossi,’’ and 
passed his hand under his chin ; I did the same, but in doing 
it we both crimsoned, and the father of Crossi looked at us 
attentively with a benevolent look, but through it there shone 
an expression of uneasiness and suspicion which caused our 
hearts to grow cold. 


papa’s nurse 

(MONTHLY STORY) 

In the morning of a rainy day in March, a boy, dressed as 
a peasant all saturated with rain and mud, with a bundle 
under his arm, presented himself to the gate-keeper of the Pel¬ 
legrini hospital in Naples, and handing him a letter of 
introduction, asked for his father. He had a beautiful oval 
face, dark and pallid, two pensive eyes, and two full lips, 
half open, showing his beautiful white teeth. He came from 
a village in the vicinity of Naples. *: His father, having left 
home the previous year to go and seek work in France, 
had returned to Naples, landing there a few days before this ; 
when, having suddenly been taken ill, he had hardly had 
time to write a line to his family, telling them that he would 
enter the hospital. His wife, in despair on account of the 
news, and not being able to leave the house because of her sick 


114 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


baby, had sent her oldest child, a lad, to Napies with a few 
soldi to assist his babbo, as they say there. The boy had 
walked ten miles to reach the hospital. 

The gate-keeper glanced at the letter, called a nurse, and 
told him to take the boy to his father. 

‘ ‘ Whose father ? ’ ’ asked the nurse. 

The boy, trembling for fear of sad news, gave his name. 

The nurse could not remember any such name. 

‘ ‘ An old workman coming from abroad ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes,” said the boy, growing more anxious, “ not so very 
old. Yes, yes, he came from abroad. * ’ 

‘ ‘ And when did he enter the hospital ? ’ ’ asked the nurse. 

The boy looked at the letter and said : ‘ ‘ About five days 
ago, I think. ’ ’ 

The nurse stood for a moment in thought; then suddenly 
remembering: “Ah,” said he, “in the fourth ward, in the 
farthest bed.” 

“ Is he very sick ? How is he ? ” anxiously asked the lad. 

The nurse looked at him for a moment without answering, 
then he said : ‘ ‘ Come with me. ’ ’ 

They ascended two stairways, walked to the end of the 
large corridor and came to the open door of a large ward with 
a row of beds on each side. ‘ ‘ Come, ’ ’ repeated the nurse, 
entering. The boy took courage and followed him, glancing 
right and left with a frightened look over the white and ema¬ 
ciated faces of the sick, some of whom had their eyes closed 
and looked as though they were dead, while others seemed to 
be staring into the air as though frightened. A great 
many were moaning like children. The ward was dark 
and the air impregnated with the sharp odor of medicines. 
Two sisters of charity were walking around with phials in 
their hands. 

Having arrived at the end of the ward, the nurse stopped 
at the head of the bed, drew the curtains aside and exclaimed: 
“ Here is your father.” 























































' • 




















































• • 



















































THE HEART OP A BOY 


115 


The boy burst into tears, and letting his bundle drop on the 
floor, put his head upon the shoulder of the sick man, grasping 
with his hand the arm which lay stretched outside the cover; 
but the sick man did not stir. The boy arose and looked at 
his father, and burst into tears again. Then the sick man 
turned his eyes upon him for a few moments and seemed to 
recognize him. But his lips did not move. ‘ ‘ Poor babbo , how 
he has changed ! ’ * The child would not have recognized him. 
His hair had grown white, his beard was much longer, his face 
swollen and of a dark red color, his skin was stretched and 
shining, the eyes had grown smaller, the lips were swollen ; he 
had not one familiar feature except the forehead and the arch 
of the eyebrows. He was breathing with difficulty. 

“ Babbo ! Oh my babbo ! ” said the boy. “ It is I. Do you 
not recognize me ? I am Cicillo, your Cicillo, who came from 
home, sent by mamma. Look at me ; do you not recognize 
me ? Speak j ust one word. ’ ’ 

But the sick man, after having looked at him attentively, 
closed his eyes. 

“Babbo! Babbo! What is the matter? I am your son, 
your Cicillo ! ’ ’ 

The sick man did not move and continued to breathe with 
difficulty. 

Then the boy, weeping, took a chair and sat down, and 
remained waiting, without raising his eyes from his father’s 
face. ‘ ‘ The physician will soon pass on his visit, ’ ’ he thought. 

‘ ‘ He will tell me what is the matter. ’ ’ And he became buried 
in sad thoughts, recalling so many nice things about his good 
father: the day of his departure, when he had given his last 
farewell to the ship, the hopes which the family had founded 
on that trip, the desolation of his mother, and the arrival of 
that letter ; and he thought of death ; he saw his father dead, 
his mother dressed in black and the family in want. He 
remained some time over these thoughts. A light hand was 
laid on his shoulder. He started, it was a nun. 


116 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


“What is the matter with my father?” he asked imme¬ 
diately. 

“ Is he your father?” asked the sister in a sweet and gentle 
voice. 

“Yes, it is my father and I have come here to see him. 
What is the matter with him ? 

“Courage, my boy,” replied the sister, “the physician 
will soon be here, ’ ’ and she left him without saying another 
word. 

Half an hour later he heard the stroke of a bell and saw 
the physician entering at the further end of the ward, accom¬ 
panied by an assistant, followed by a sister and a nurse. They 
began the visits, stopping at every bed. The time of waiting 
seemed an eternity to the lad. Every time the physician 
stopped, his anxiety grew stronger. At last they arrived at the 
neighboring bed. The physician was an old man, tall and 
round-shouldered, with a grave face. Before he left the nearest 
bed the lad arose, and when he approached him the boy began 
to weep. 

The physician looked at him. 

“ It is the son of the sick man,” said the sister, “he arrived 
this morning from his village. ’ ’ 

The physician laid his hand upon the boy’s shoulder, and 
then bent over the sick man, felt his pulse, touched his fore¬ 
head and asked some questions of the sister, who answered: 
“ Nothing new.” He stood a moment in deep thought, then 
he said : ‘ ‘ Continue the treatment as before. ’ ’ 

The lad taking courage, asked in a sobbing voice : ‘ ‘ What 
is the matter with my father ? ’ ’ 

“ Have courage, my child,” answered the physician, replac¬ 
ing his hand on his shoulder. “ He has erysipelas on his face. 
It is a very grave case, but there is still hope. Assist him. 
Your presence may do him much good.” 

“ But he does not recognize me!” exclaimed the boy in a 
desolate tone. 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


117 


‘ He may recognize you to-morrow, perhaps. Let us hope 
for the best and have courage. ’ ’ 

The boy would have been glad to ask him more, but he 
dared not. The physician passed along to another patient. 
And then the lad began the work of nurse. Not being able to 
do anything else, he would fix the cover of the sick man, would 
touch his hand from time to time, would chase the flies which 
came near, would lean over him at every moan, and when the 
nun brought the father some beverage, the boy would take 
the glass and spoon from her hand and give it to him in her 
stead. At times the sick man looked at him but gave no sign 
of recognition. However, his» gaze rested longer upon him 
than anything else, especially when he laid the handkerchief 
over his father’s eyes. Thus the first day passed. During the 
night the boy slept upon two chairs in a corner of the ward, 
and in the morning he again took up his work of mercy. That 
day it seemed as if the eyes of the sick man revealed a faint 
trace of consciousness. At the caressing voice of the lad, it 
seemed as though a vague expression of gratitude shone for a 
moment in their depths, and once he moved his lips as though 
he wished to speak. After a short nap he reopened his eyes 
and seemed to be looking for his little nurse. The doctor, pass¬ 
ing twice, thought he noticed a little improvement. Towards 
evening, reaching the glass to his father’s lips, the boy thought 
he saw a very faint smile glide over his face. He began to take 
comfort and to hope. With the hope of being understood, at 
least confusedly, he talked to him for a long time, of mamma, 
of his two little sisters, of the return home, and exhorted him 
with warm and loving words, to take courage. Although 
doubting if he were understood, still he talked on, because it 
seemed to him that even if his father did not comprehend 
him, he would hear his voice with a certain pleasure, a 
tone of affection and sweetness being unusual in such a 
place. In this way the second day was passed. Then the third 
and the fourth, with alternating improvement and changes for 


118 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


the worse, and the lad was so absorbed in his cares that he 
scarcely ate even a bit of the bread and cheese which the sister 
brought him twice a day. He took little notice of what was 
happening around him ; the nuns coming or going during 
the night, or the outbursts of despair, and he scarcely saw the 
sick and dying near him. He lived with his hope among all 
those scenes of hospital life, which on any other occasion would 
have amazed and grieved him. The hours, the days passed 
by, and he was all the time there with his babbo , anxious, 
agitated, watching his every breath and glance ; without any 
rest to relieve his mind of a fear that froze his heart. 

Suddenly, on the fifth day, the sick man began to grow 
worse. 

The physician, upon being questioned, shook his head, as 
if he meant to say, “that is the end,” and the lad flung him¬ 
self on the chair and burst out sobbing. One thing, however, 
consoled him. In spite of the fact that the father grew worse, 
it seemed to him that the sick man was slowly regaining a 
slight consciousness. He looked at the boy more and more 
intelligently, and with a growing expression of sweetness; he did 
not want to take any portion of his medicine except from his 
hand, and renewed oftener his strenuous efforts to pronounce a 
word, and sometimes he did it so plainly that the child would 
grasp his arm firmly, as though inspired by a sudden hope. 
“ Courage, courage, babbo, you will recover, and then we will 
go home to mamma; have a little more courage!” 

It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and at that moment, 
the boy had abandoned himself to one of those outbursts of 
tenderness and hope, when, through the nearest door of the 
ward, a sound of steps was heard, and then a strong voice 
spoke two words only: “ Farewell, sister,” which made him 
jump to his feet with a repressed cry bursting from his 
throat! 

In the meantime, a man entered the ward, with a large 
bundle in his hand, followed by a sister. 


THE HEART OP A BOY 


119 


* 


The boy uttered a sharp cry and stood there as if nailed to 
the floor. 

The man turned around and looked at him a moment, then 
cried: “ Ciccillo!” and darted towards him. 

The lad fell into the arms of his father without being able 
to utter a word. 

The sisters, the nurses, and the assistant physician, all ran 
toward them filled with astonishment. 



The boy could not recover his voice. 

“ Oh, my Ciccillo!” exclaimed the father, after having cast 
an attentive look at the sick man, kissing the boy again and 
again. “ Ciccillo, my child, how does it happen that you are 
here? Have they taken you to the bed of another man, while 
I was all the time in despair because I did not see you, for your 
mother wrote me that she had sent you to me. Poor Ciccillo! 
How many days have you been here, and how did this happen ? 



4 


120 the heart of a boy 

I have come out easily; I am well now ! How is mamma ? Con- 
cettella, and the baby, how are they ? I am leaving the hos¬ 
pital, come with me. Oh, great God ! who would have thought 
of this !’' 

The child tried hard to speak a few words, to give the 
family news. “ I am so glad!” he murmured, “so glad. And 
what days I have passed here!” He did not stop kissing his 
father. 

But still the boy did not move. 

* ‘ Come along, ’ ’ said the father, “ we can get home to-night. 
Let us go. 1 ’ And he drew the boy towards him. 

The boy turned to look at the sick man. 

“ But — why don’t you come?” asked the father, amazed. 

The lad cast another glance at the sick man, who, at that 
moment, opened his eyes and stared at him; then from his soul 
poured out a flood of words. “ No, babbo, -wait-be¬ 
hold, -I cannot. There is that old man. I have been 

here five days. He looks at me all the time. I thought it was 
you. I loved him. He looks at me incessantly. I give him 
to drink and he wishes me to be near him. Now he is very 
low; have some patience. I have not the courage, I don’t know 
why it is, but I cannot leave him; it would be too painful for 
me. I will return home to-morrow. Let me stay here a little 
longer; it is not right that I should leave him; look at the way 
he gazes at me. I do not know who he may be, but he wants 
me ; he would die if left alone. Allow me to stay, dear babbo ! ’ ’ 

“ Good little fellow! ” cried the assistant physician. 

The father stood there in perplexity, looking first at the 
boy and then at the sick man. “ Who is he ?” he asked. 

“A peasant, like yourself, ” answered the assistant, “who 
came from abroad and entered the hospital the same day you 
did. They brought him here in an unconscious state and he 
has not been able to say anything since. Perhaps he has a 
family, and sons far away. He may think that your boy is 
one of his sons.” 





THE HEART OF A BOY 


121 


The sick man was still staring at the boy. 

The father said to Ciccillo, “ Stay! ’ ’ 

“He will not have to stay much longer,” whispered the 
assistant. 

“Stay!” repeated the father; “you have a heart. I will 
go directly home to relieve mamma of her suspense and anx¬ 
iety. Here is a scudo for your expenses. Good-bye, noble 
child of mine, till we meet again.” 

He embraced him, looked at him intently, kissed him again 
on the forehead and went away. 

The lad returned to the bed of the patient, who seemed con¬ 
soled. Ciccillo again commenced to act as nurse, no longer 
crying, but with the same eagerness and the same patience as 
before. He again gave the sick man something to drink, fixed 
his bed clothes, stroked his hand, and spoke to him sweetly, as 
if to give him courage. He attended him all day, all the next 
night and stood close to the bed the following day, but the sick 
man grew worse and worse continually. His face began to 
get blue, his breath was heavier, and his suffering became more 
intense. Some inarticulate cries escaped his lips; the inflam¬ 
mation was steadily increasing. In the evening, when the 
physician came to make his visit, he said that he would not 
live through the night. Then Ciccillo redoubled his vigilance, 
and did not take his eyes off from him for a moment. The 
sick man looked at him and moved his lips from time to time 
with a great effort as if to speak. An extraordinary expression 
would now and then gleam from his eyes, which were gradually 
growing smaller and dimmer. That night the lad watched him 
until he saw through the windows the first dawn of day, when 
a sister appeared. She approached the two, cast a glance at 
the sick man, and left with hurried steps. A few moments 
after, she returned with the assistant physician and a nurse, 
who carried a light. 

“ It is the last moment,” said the physician. 


122 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


Th^ lad grasped the hand of the sick man. The latter 
opened his eyes, looked at him, and closed them forever. 

In that last minute, it seemed to the boy as though he felt 
a pressure of his hand. “He has pressed my hand!” he 
exclaimed. 

The physician stood for a moment bending over the sick 
man and then he rose to his feet. The sister took the crucifix 
from the wall. “ He is dead,” cried the boy. 

“Good child,” said the physician. “ Your blessed work is 
over. Go. May fortune smile upon you as you deserve. God 
will protect you. Farewell!” 

The sister, who had gone away for a moment, returned with 
a bouquet of violets taken from a glass on the window sill, and 
handed them to the boy, saying : “I have nothing else to give 
you. Take this in remembrance of the hospital.” 

“Thanks,” said the boy, taking the bouquet with one hand 
and wiping his eyes with the other, “ but I have so far to walk 

-I would spoil it.” And, unloosening the bouquet, he 

scattered the violets upon the bed, saying: “ I leave them here 
in remembrance of the poor dead one. Thanks, sister. Thanks, 

signor doctor,” then, turning to the dead: “Good-bye,”-, 

while he was trying to think of a name to call him, there came 
from his heart to his lips that sweet name by which he,had 
called him for five days. ‘ ‘ Good-bye, poor babbo. ’ * 

Having said this, he put the little bundle of clothes under 
his arm and with slow and weary steps he went away. The 
day was just breaking. 


THE WORKSHOP 

Saturday the 18 th. 

Precossi called last evening to remind me that I was to go 
and see his workshop, which is farther down the street. When 
I went out with my father this morning, I asked to be taken 
there for a moment. As we approached the shop, Garoffi 




THE HEART OF A BOY 


123 


came running out with a package in his hand, and the cloak 
under which he conceals his merchandise was flying in the 
wind. Ah, now I know where he goes to get the iron filings 
which he trades for old newspapers, that trafficking Garoffi. 
Peeping in at the door of the shop, we saw Precossi seated on 
a pile of bricks, studying his lesson on his knees. He got up 
quickly and bade us enter. It was a large room filled with 
coal dust. The walls were covered with hammers, pincers, 
iron bars, and old pieces of iron of every shape. In a corner 
there was a fire burning in a fire-place, and a boy was blowing 
it with a pair of bellows. Precossi’s father stood near the 
anvil, and another lad was holding an iron bar in the fire. 

“Oh, here he is,” said the blacksmith, taking off his cap. 
“ Here is the boy who gives away railroad trains. You have 
come to see us work a little, have you not? You will be satis¬ 
fied.” As he said this he smiled. He no longer had that 
contorted face and those bleared eyes which he once had. The 
lad handed him a long red hot iron bar, which the blacksmith 
laid upon the anvil. He was making some curved pieces for 
railings of balconies. He lifted the heavy hammer and began 
to strike, pushing the red hot end one way and another, from 
the end of the anvil to the middle, turning it around in differ¬ 
ent ways. It was wonderful to see how the iron would bend 
and twist under those rapid and precise blows of the hammer, 
until by degrees he shaped it into the form of a beautiful leaf 
or flower, curled as if it might have been some dough which 
he moulded with his hand. In the meantime his son was look¬ 
ing at us with an air of pride, as if he wished to say, “ Do you 
see how my father can work ? ’ ’ 

“Have you seen how that is done, signori?” asked the 
blacksmith when he had finished, putting in front of us the iron 
piece which looked like a bishop’s crozier. Then he took us 
to one side and stuck another iron into the fire. 

“ That is well done, indeed,” said my father. “ You are at 
work again now ! The good will has come back.” 


124 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


“Yes, it has come back,” answered the blacksmith, wiping 
the perspiration from his brow and blushing a little, ‘ ‘ and do 
you know who caused it to return ? ’ ’ My father feigned not 
to understand. 

“ That brave boy,” said the blacksmith, pointing at his son 
with his finger. “ That brave boy there. He studied and was 
honoring his father, while his father was dissipating and treated 
him like a beast. When I saw that medal—ah ! that little 
fellow of mine, who is scarcely as tall as a penny’s worth of 
cheese ! Come here, that I may look you straight in the face ! ” 

The boy ran immediately to him. The smith took him and 
placed him on the anvil, holding him by the hand, saying: “ Do 
clean the face of this beast of a father.” 

Precossi covered his father’s black face with kisses until his 
own was also all black. 

That is the way," said the blacksmith, placing him back 
on the floor. 

“ That is the way, indeed, Precossi ! ” exclaimed my father 
joyfully, and saying good-bye to the blacksmith and his son, 
he took me away. 

When I was going out, Precossi said to me: “Excuseme,” 
and thrust a little package of nails into my pocket. I invited 
him to come to my house to see the carnival. 

When we reached the street, my father said: “You have 
given him your railway train, but had it been made of gold 
and filled with pearls, it would have been a small present for 
that child, who has reformed the heart of his father. ’ ’ 


THE LITTLE CLOWN 

Monday the 20th . 

The whole city is in an uproar over the carnival season, 
which is about to come to an end. They are putting up booths 
and mountebank tents in every square. There is a circus tent 
under our windows, where a small Venetian company gives 


THE HEART OE A BOY 


125 


oerformances with five horses. The circus is in the middle of 
the square and in the corner there are three large wagons, in 
which the mountebanks sleep and where they disguise them- 
selves. Three small houses on wheels, with little windows and 
a chimney, always smoking, in each one. Some baby clothes 
are hanging between the small 
windows. There is a woman 
who nurses a baby, cooks, and 
dances on the rope. Poor peo¬ 
ple! One speaks the word of 
mountebank as though it were 
an insulting one; yet, they earn 
their bread honestly, amusing 
everybody, and how they work! 

They run all day between the 
circus and the wagons in this 
cold weather, dressed in tights. 

They eat two or three mouth¬ 
fuls of bread and run here 
and there between the perform¬ 
ances. Sometimes, when the 
circus is crowded, a wind rises 
which tears the canvas, puts 
out the lights, and the perform¬ 
ance must close. Then they 
are obliged to return the mon¬ 
ey and work the whole evening 
putting the tent in shape again. 

They have two boys who per¬ 
form tricks, and my father recognized the smallest one as he 
was crossing the square. He is the son of a circus master, the 
same one whom we saw play tricks on horseback last year in the 
piazza Vittorio Emanuele, but he has grown since then. He 
is barely eight years old, a fine looking lad with the pretty 
round face of a gamin, with black curls which come out from 













126 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


under his conical shaped hat. He is dressed like a clown, 
wears a large bag-shaped suit with sleeves of white, embroi¬ 
dered with black, and linen shoes. He never keeps still. 
Everybody likes him. He does all sorts of tricks. In the 
morning, we see him wrapped up in a shawl, carrying milk to 
their wagon; then he goes to the stable in Bertola street and 
brings the horses. He holds a little baby in his arms, carries 
hoops, wooden horses, wooden bars, and ropes. He cleans the 
wagons, lights the fire, and when he rests he is always near his 
mother. My father watches him all the time from the window, 
and talks with him about his own people, who seem to be very 
good and to love their children. 

One evening, we went to the circus. It was cold and there 
were but few persons in the audience, but the little clown did 
all he could to keep the small crowd merry. He would turn 
somersaults, grasp the tails of the horses, stand on his head, 
and sing, always smiling, with his pretty brown face. His 
father was dressed in a red coat, white trousers with top boots 
and a whip in his hand. It was really sad to see him watch 
his son. My father felt sorry for them and spoke about it the 
next day to the artist Delis, who came to visit us. ‘ ‘ Those 
poor people kill themselves working so hard and still do so little 
business ! ” He liked the little boy so much, what could be 
done in their behalf ! The artist had an idea: 

“ Write a beautiful article in the ‘Gazette,’ ” he said, “ you 
who write so well, you will tell of the wonderful performances of 
the little clown and I will draw his portrait for you. Every¬ 
body reads the ‘ Gazette,’ and for once, at least, the people will 
rush to the circus.” —So it was done. My father wrote a fine 
article, full of witticisms, telling all that we see from the win¬ 
dow—enough to make the people eager to know and favor the 
little clown, and the artist sketched a little portrait, a very pretty 
and good likeness, which appeared in the Saturday evening 
‘Gazette.’ And, behold, at the Sunday performance, a large 
crowd rushed to the circus. It had been announced ‘ ‘ Beiiejit 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


127 


performance for the Little Clown ”—“The Tittle Clown, as 
the ‘Gazette’ had called him. My father took me there into one 
of the first reserved seats. They had posted the ‘Gazette beside 
the entrance. The circus was crowded. Many of the spec¬ 
tators held the ‘Gazette’ in their hands and showed it to the little 
clown, who laughed and ran from one place to another, looking 
very happy. The master was also delighted. It is easy to 
imagine that no paper had ever paid him so much honor before, 
and the cash box was full. My father sat next to me. Among 
the spectators we saw some acquaintances of ours. Near the 
entrance where the horses came in, stood the teacher of gym¬ 
nastics, the one who has been with Garibaldi. In the second 
row in front of us, the “ Tittle Mason,” with his small round 
face, was seated next to his father. As soon as he saw me 
he made the hare face. A little further ahead, I saw Garoffi, 
counting the spectators and figuring upon the point of his fin¬ 
gers how much the company had taken in. Poor Robetti, the 
one who saved the child from the omnibus, also sat in a reserved 
seat not very far from us. He was holding his crutches between 
his knees. At his side sat his father, the artillery captain, 
who laid a hand on his shoulder. The performance com¬ 
menced.—The little clown performed some marvelous feats on 
horseback, on the trapeze, and on the rope, and every time 
that he jumped down, all clapped their hands, and many 
patted his curly locks. Then others of the company displayed 
their skill in various exercises on the rope. There were jug¬ 
glers and bare-back riders dressed in clothes glittering with 
silver. But when the lad was not there, it seemed as though 
the people were bored. During the performance, I saw the 
teacher of gymnastics whisper in the ear of the circus master, 
who immediately cast a glance around the audience as though 
looking for some one; his eyes rested upon us. My father 
noticed it, understood all, and, in order not to be thanked, 
went away, saying to me: 

“ Stay, Enrico, I will wait for you outside.” 


128 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


The little clown, after having exchanged a few words with 
his father, gave one more performance, standing on the horse 
while he was galloping. He changed his clothes four times, 
appearing as a pilgrim, as a sailor, as a soldier and as an acro¬ 
bat; and every time he passed near me, he looked at me. When 
he came down he began to make the tour of the circus with 
his clown hat in his hand, and all threw soldi and candies 
to him. I had two soldi ready, but when he was in front of 
me, instead of reaching out his hat, he pulled it back, looked 
at me, and passed on. I was mortified. Why should he have 
behaved like that ? 

The performance came to a close. The circus master 
thanked the people and every one got up and crowded toward 
the exit. I thought myself lost in the crowd, and was 
about to go out when some one touched my hand. I turned 
around, it was the little clown, with his beautiful round face 
and his black locks. He smiled at me, standing there with his 
hands filled with candies. Then I understood all. 

“ Will you accept these candies from the ‘ little clown’ ? ” 
he asked. I took three or four of them, then he added: 

“ Take also a kiss.” 

“Give me two,” I answered, and put out my face to him. 
He cleaned his powdered face with his sleeve, put his arms 
around my neck and pressed two kisses on my cheek, saying: 
“ Take these, one for you and one for your father! ” 


THE LAST DAY OF CARNIVAL 

Tuesday the 21st. 

We witnessed a very sad scene to-day in the Corso, during 
the procession of the masks. Fortunately, it ended well; but 
a great misfortune might have happened. In the piazza San 
Carlo, which was all decorated with yellow, red and white 
festoons, a multitude of people were thronging, masks of every 
description were passing, gilded and decorated floats in the 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


129 


shape of pavilions, small theatres and boats, filled with harle¬ 
quins, warriors, cooks, sailors and shepherds. There was such 
a confusion that one did not know where to look, and such a 
loud clash of trumpets, cymbals and hurrahs, that it was deaf¬ 
ening. The people in masks on the floats were shouting and 
singing and addressing the people who were in the street and 
at the windows, and who answered at the top of their voices, 
and threw out oranges and confections. Above the carriages 
and above the throng, as far as the eye could reach, one could 
see little flags floating, helmets gleaming, plumes waving, and 
all those pasteboard hats moving; gigantic caps, enormously 
high hats, extravagant weapons, tambourines, castanets, and 
all sorts of bottles; it seemed as though the people had all gone 
crazy. When our carriage entered the piazza, a magnificent 
float was just in front of us. It was drawn by four horses 
covered with embroidered trappings, and upon the car, wreathed 
with artificial flowers, there stood fourteen or fifteen gentlemen, 
all masked as noblemen of the court of France, all shimmer¬ 
ing in silk, wearing huge white wigs and plumed hats; each 
carried a little sword, and wore a tuft of ribbon and lace 
upon his breast, which made him look very handsome. They 
were all singing a French song and throwing sweets to the 
people, who clapped their hands shouting. Suddenly, upon 
our left, we saw a man lifting a little girl above the heads of 
the crowd. She was only five or six years old. The poor 
thing was crying desperately and moving her arms as if taken 
with convulsions. The man made his way toward the car of 
the signori; one of the gentlemen bent down, and the man said 
aloud: 

“Take this child, she has lost her mother in the crowd. 
Hold her in your arms, her mother cannot be far away and she 
will see her; I do not see any better way.” 

The gentleman took the child in his arms; they all stopped 
singing; the child screamed and struggled; the gentleman took 
off his mask; the car moved slowly. In the meanwhile, as we 


130 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


were told later, at the other end of the square, a poor woman, 
almost crazed, was breaking her way through the throng with 
her elbows and shouting: 

“ Maria! Maria! Maria! I have lost my daughter! She 
has been stolen from me! They have suffocated my child! ” 
She raved in this way for a quarter of an hour, going here and 
there, crushed by the crowd which prevented her from quick¬ 
ening her step. In the meantime, the gentleman on the car 
held the child pressed against the ribbons and lace on his 
breast, looking over the piazza and trying to quiet the poor 
creature, who, not knowing where she was, sobbed as though 
her heart would break. The gentleman was affected; it was 
evident that those cries reached his souL All the others 
offered the child oranges and candies, but she refused every¬ 
thing, all the time becoming more and more frightened and 
convulsive. 

‘ ‘ Took for the mother ! ’ ’ cried the gentleman to the crowd. 
“ Try to find the mother ! ” 

People turned to the right and left, but the mother was not 
to be found. 

Finally, a few steps from the place where the via Roma 
enters the piazza, a woman was seen rushing towards the car. 
Ah !—I will never forget that sight! —She scarcely looked like 
a woman, her hair was disheveled, her face distorted, her gar¬ 
ments torn; she rushed along with a rattle in her throat, and 
one could not tell whether it was of joy or of anguish, or even 
of rage, and she threw out her hands like two clasps to grasp 
her child. The car stopped: 

“ Here she is,” said the gentleman, and having kissed her, 
he put her into the arms of her mother, who kissed her impet¬ 
uously, but one of those little hands remained for a second 
between the hands of the gentleman, who pulled a gold ring 
with a large diamond setting from his finger, and with a rapid 
movement slipped it on the finger of the little girl: 

“Take it,” he said, “this will be your marriage dowry.” 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


131 


The mother stood there as if enchanted. The crowd loudly 
applauded. The gentleman put on his mask again, his com¬ 
panions began to sing, and the car started off slowly in the 
midst of a tumult of hand-clappings and hurrahs. 


THE BLIND BOYS 

Thursday the 2/f.th. 

Our teacher is very ill, and in his stead the principal sent 
the master of the fourth class, who was once a teacher in an 
institution for the blind. He is the oldest of all the teachers, 
and his hair is so white that it looks as though he wore a cotton 
wig. He talks in a peculiar manner, as if singing a melancholy 
song, but he is good and very intelligent. As soon as he en¬ 
tered the school, he noticed a boy who had one eye bandaged; 
he approached his bench and asked him what was the matter. 

“Take good care of your eye, boy,” he said, and then 
Derossi asked him: 

“ is it true, signor master, that you have been a teacher of 
the blind? ” 

“Yes, for many years,” he answered, and Derossi said 
softly: 

‘ ‘ Please tell us something about it. ’ ’ 

The teacher went to his desk and sat down. 

Coretti said aloud: 

‘ ‘ The institution for the blind is in the Via Nizza.” 

“You say blind,—blind,” said the master, “as you would 
say sick or poor people, or I know not what. But do you 
thoroughly understand the meaning of that word ? Think of 
it a moment. Blind! Never to see, never ! Never to distinguish 
the day from the night, never to see the sky, nor the sun, nor 
even your own parents, nothing of all that surrounds us, nothing 
that we touch; to be sunk into perpetual darkness, like 
being buried in the bowels of the earth. Try to close your eyes 
for a few moments and think what it is to be obliged to remain 


132 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


thus forever. You will immediately be overwhelmed with 
agony and terror. It would seem to you impossible for one to 
endure it: that you would grieve, that you would go crazy, 

that you would die. Still-poor boys ; when one enters an 

institute for the blind during the recreation hours for the first 
time, one would not think that they are so unfortunate as they 
really are; one will hear them playing the violin and flute, talk¬ 
ing in a loud voice, laughing, going up and down the stairs 
with quick steps, and moving freely through the corridors and 
dormitories. One must observe them well. There are youths 
of sixteen and eighteen, robust and merry, who bear their 
blindness with a certain ease; but one understands, from a cer¬ 
tain proud and resentful expression of the countenance, how 
much they must have suffered, before they became resigned to 
their misfortune. There are others with sweet and pallid faces, 
in which one can perceive so much resignation, but so sad that 
it is evident that they still mourn at times.—Ah ! my children. 
Think that some of them have lost their eyesight in a few days, 
others have lost it after years of martyrdom, during which they 
endured many terrible surgical operations, and many are born 
into a night that never had any dawn for them; they entered 
the world as they would enter an immense tomb, and do not 
know how a human face looks. Imagine how much they must 
have suffered and how much they must still suffer when they 
think confusedly of the tremendous difference between them¬ 
selves and those who can see, and they ask themselves,—‘Why 
such a difference if we are not to blame ? ? 

“ I spent many years among them, and when I remember 
that class of unfortunates, all those eyes sealed forever, all 
those pupils without expression and without light, and then 
look at you boys — it seems impossible that you are not all 
happy. Think of it! There are about twenty-six thousand 
blind persons in Italy! Twenty-six thousand persons who 
do not see the light! Do you understand ? An army so large 
that it would take hours for it to pass under our windows. ’ * 



THE heart of a boy 


133 


The teacher was silent. Not a breath was heard in the 
school. Derossi finally asked if it were true that the blind 
have a finer sense of feeling than we. 

The teacher replied: “ It is true. All the other senses are 
more acute in them; because having to replace the sense of 
sight by the use of the other faculties, they are better exercised 
in the blind than in those who can see. In the dormitories in 
the morning, one asks of the others: ‘ Is the sun out? ’ And 
the one who can dress the quickest runs into the court and 
waves his hands in the air to see if he can feel any perceptible 
warmth of the sun and then runs back to carry the news: 

‘ Yes, the sun is out!’ From the sound of the voice of a per¬ 
son they form an idea of his stature. We judge the soul of a 
man by the eye, they by the voice; they remember the intona¬ 
tions and accents of a voice for years. They can tell whether 
there are one or more persons in a room, even if only one talks 
and the others remain perfectly quiet. By their touch, whether 
a spoon is clean or not. The girls can distinguish whether the 
woolens are dyed or natural color- They go two by two 
through the streets. They can tell the different shops by the 
smell, even those from which we perceive no odor. They spin 
the top, and, by listening to its humming, they go straight to 
it and pick it up without any hesitation. They trundle the 
hoop, they play nine-pins, jump the rope, build small houses 
with stones, and pick violets as though able to see; they make 
mats and baskets, weaving together the straws of different 
colors quickly and correctly,— to such a degree is their sense 
of touch trained. The sense of feeling is their eye-sight. To 
guess the shape of things by feeling them is one of their 
greatest pleasures. It is affecting to see them when they are 
taken to the Industrial Museum, where they are allowed to 
touch anything they wish. They seize with eagerness upon 
the geometrical bodies, the models of houses, and the instru¬ 
ments. With what joy they rub, and feel, and turn over all 


134 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


those things in their hands, to see how they are made. They 
call that seeing-.” 

Garoffi interrupted the teacher to ask him if it were true 
that the blind boys learn to reckon faster than others. 

The teacher replied: “It is true. They learn to figure 
and to read. They have books made on purpose for them with 
raised characters. They pass their fingers over them, recog¬ 
nize the letters, and speak the word, and read rapidly. You 
ought to see how the poor fellows blush when they make a 
mistake. They also write without ink. They write upon a 
thick, hard paper with a metal point which makes a great 
many little hollows, grouped according to a special alphabet. 
These little punctures stand out in Relief on the other side of 
the paper, so that by turning the sheet over and drawing their 
fingers across it, they are able to read what they have written 
as well as what other persons write, and thus they prepare 
compositions and write letters to one another. They write 
numbers in the same way and make calculations. They calcu¬ 
late mentally with incredible facility, not being diverted by 
the sight of things around them as we are. You ought to see 
how passionately fond they are of hearing some one read, how 
attentive they are, how well they remember everything, how 
they discuss subjects, the little ones as well, talking about his¬ 
tory and language. Four or five of them sit together on the 
same bench, and, without turning around, the first converses 
with the third and the second with the fourth, aloud and all at 
the same time, without losing a single word, so acute and ac¬ 
curate is the ear! They attach a great deal more importance 
to the examinations than you, I assure you, and they love their 
teacher more than you do. They recognize the teacher by his 
odor as well as by his step. They can tell whether he is in 
good or bad humor; if he is well or not; simply by the sound 
of a single word. They want the teacher to touch them when 
he encourages and praises them, and they feel his hands and 
arms to express their gratitude. They like each other and are 


* 



* 


sac; 

































THE HEART OF A BOY 


135 


good companions. In times of recreation, they always separate 
into certain cliques. In the girls’ school, for instance, they 
form groups according to the instrument which they play; the 
violinists, the pianists, and the flute players, and they will never 
separate. They seldom lose their affection for persons after 
having once become attached to them. They find great com¬ 
fort in friendship. They judge correctly among themselves. 
They have a clear and profound conception of good and evil. 
No one becomes so enthusiastic as they when hearing of a 
generous deed or of a grand act.” 

Votini asked if they played well. 

‘ 4 They are passionately fond of music, * ’ answered the 
teacher. ‘ ‘ The love of music is the joy of their life. Some blind 
children, when they first enter the institute, are apt to stand 
for three hours perfectly motionless, listening to the music. 
They learn music readily and play with a great deal of expres¬ 
sion. When the teacher tells one of them that he has no talent 
for music, he is very sorrowful and begins to study desperately. 
Ah ! If you could but hear the music there ! If you could only 
see them when they play, with their heads thrown back, a smile 
on their lips, their faces aglow and quivering with emotion, 
listening in ecstasy to that harmony which pervades the ob¬ 
scurity that envelops them, you would then feel what a divine 
consolation there is in music ! When the teacher tells one of 
them: You will become an artist, his face brightens and he is 
overjoyed. The one who is first in music, who succeeds better 
than the rest at the violin or the piano, is like a king among 
them; they love him; they venerate him. If there is a quarrel 
between two of them, they go to him. If two friends become 
estranged, he reconciles them. The little ones whom he 
teaches to play, regard him as a father. Before going to sleep 
they all go and bid him good night. They talk of music con¬ 
tinually during the day and at night when they are in bed, 
almost all of them tired out with study and work and half 
asleep, still they discuss, in a low voice, operas, composers, 


136 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


instruments, and orchestras. Being deprived of the reading of 
the music lesson is a great punishment for them. They suffer 
so much from it, that we hardly ever had the courage to punish 
them in that way. What light is to our eyes, music is to 
their hearts.” 

Derossi asked if one could go and see them. 

“ Yes, any one can go,” replied the master, “ but you boys 
must not go there yet. You may go later when you are in a 
condition to understand the extent of their misfortune and are 
able to feel all the compassion which it merits. It is a sad 
sight, my boys ! Sometimes, you see a boy there sitting against 
an open window, enjoying the fresh air with an immovable 
countenance, who seems to look at the green plain and ‘the 

beautiful azure mountains which you see-and to think 

that he sees nothing, that he will never see any of that grand 
beauty ! At that moment, your soul is oppressed as though 
you had become blind.—There are those who are born blind, 
who, having never seen the world, do not regret anything 
because they have the image of nothing and these are less 
to be pitied. But there are boys who have been blind only a 
few months, who recall everything which they have lost, and, 
in addition to this, they suffer the grief of feeling their minds 
obscured, the loving image growing fainter and fainter until the 
image of the persons to whom they were attached the most dies 
out from their memory. One of these boys told me one day, with 
inexpressible sadness : ‘ I would like to recover my eye-sight 

again just for a moment, that I might see again my mother’s 
face. I do not remember it any longer ! ’ And when their 
mothers come to see them, they put their hands upon their 
faces, they touch them upon the foreheads and ears, to feel how 
they are made, and they can hardly persuade themselves that 
they cannot see them. They call them by name time after time, 
as if to beg of them to give them the power to see their mothers 
just for once. How many people leave that place crying, even 
hard-hearted men! When one goes there, it seems as though it 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


137 


were an exception that you are able to see, a privilege scarcely 
deserved, to see the people, the houses, the sky ! There is not 
one of you, I am certain, who, coming out from that place, 
would not be disposed to deprive himself of a little of his own 
eye-sight, if by so doing he might bestow a gleam to those poor 
children, for whom the sun has no longer light nor the mother 
a face ! ” 


THE SICK MASTER 

Saturday the 25th. 

When I came from school last night, I went to visit my 
master. He made himself sick by working too hard. Five 
hours of lessons during the day, then an hour of gymnastics, 
then two more hours of evening school; which means to sleep 
little, to eat by snatches, and to work breathlessly from morn¬ 
ing till night. In this way he has ruined his health, so my 
mother says. My mother waited for me below at the big door 
and I went up alone. On the stairs I met Coatti, the teacher 
with the bushy black beard, who always frightens the boys but 
never punishes them. He looked at me with his large eyes, 
and spoke with a voice like a lion’s, just for fun, but he did 
not laugh. I was still laughing when I rang the bell at my 
teacher’s door on the fourth floor, but stopped instantly when 
the servant bade me enter a poor room, dimly lighted, where 
my teacher was lying. He lay upon a little iron bedstead. 
His beard was long. He placed his hand on his brow in order 
to see me better, and said in an affectionate voice: 

“Oh! Enrico.” 

I approached the bed and he laid his hand on my shoulder 
and said: 

“ Good boy, you have done well to come and see your poor 
master. I am reduced to a bad state, as you see, my dear En¬ 
rico. And how is school getting on ? What are your school¬ 
mates doing? Everything goes well, does it not? And even 


138 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


without me ? You can Jo without me very well; isn't that so ? 
Without your old teacher ? ” 

I was trying to say no, but he interrupted me. 

“ Come, come, I know that you do not dislike me,” and he 
heaved a sigh. 

I looked at some photographs that were hanging on the 
wall. “ Do you see,” he said, ‘'those are boys, who through 
the last twenty years have given me their photographs. They 
were good boys. Those are my souvenirs. When I die, my 
last glance will be given to them; my last thought will be of 
those boys among whom I have passed my life. Will you not 
also give me your picture when you are through the element¬ 
ary course? ” Then he took an orange from his stand and put 
it into my hand. 

“ I have nothing else to give you,” he said, “it is the pres¬ 
ent of a sick man. ’ ’ 

I looked at him, and my whole heart felt sad. 

“You must take care,” continued the teacher, “I expect 

to get out of this, but if I never should- try to become 

stronger in arithmetic; it is your weak point; make an effort; 
as sometimes it is not the lack of aptitude but merely the ab¬ 
sence of a fixed purpose, of stability, as one might call it.” 

While he was saying this, he breathed with difficulty, and 
I saw that he suffered. “ I have an ugly fever,” he sighed, 
“lam about gone. I beseech you then, apply yourself to the 
arithmetical problems. If one does not succeed the first time, 
he must rest awhile and then try it again; and then, if he does 
not succeed, after a little rest, he must try once more. Go 
ahead quietly, without tiring yourself, and without getting 
excited. Go. Give my regards to your mother, and do not 
mount these stairs again, we will meet in the school room 
soon. If we should not meet, think sometimes of your teacher 
of the third class, who has loved you so much.” 

I felt like crying when I heard those words. 

“ Bend your head down to me,” he said. 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


139 


I bent my head over his pillow and he kissed me on my hair. 
Then he said “ Go,” and turned his face to the wall. 

I flew down stairs in a hurry, as I was anxious to embrace 
my mother. 


THE STREET 

Saturday the 25th. 

I was watching thee from the window this evening when thou 
wert returning home from thy visit to thy teacher, and I saw thee 
push a woman. Pay a little more attention and see how thou 
dost walk in the street; there are duties to be fulfilled even there. 
If thou measurest thy steps and gestures in a private house, why 
shouldst thou not do the same in the street which is the abode of 
every one. Remember, Enrico, if thou shouldst at any time meet 
a feeble old woman, a poor woman with a babe in her arms, a 
cripple with his crutches, a man bending beneath a load, a family 
dressed in mourning, make way for them respectfully. We must 

respect old age, misery, maternal love, infirmity, fatigue, and 
death. Whenever thou seest a person about to be run over by a 
carriage; if a child, pull him away; if it is a man, make him 
aware of his danger. Always ask what is the matter with the 
child who is alone and weeping. Pick up the cane of an old man 
who accidentally drops it. If two boys fight, separate them; if it 
is two men, move away; do not look at a performance of brutal 
violence which off ends and hardens the heart. When thou seest 
a man hand-cuffed between two policemen, do not add thy curiosity 
to the cruel one of the crowd; he may be innocent. When thou 
meetest a hospital litter, stop smiling and talking to thy compan¬ 
ion; perhaps it may be carrying a dying man; perhaps it may be 
a funeral procession, one as might come out from thine own house 
on the morrow. Look with respect at all those boys who come from 
the different asylums, walking two by two; to the deaf and dumb, 
to those afflicted with the rickets, to the orphans, to the foundlings. 
Think that it is a human misfortune and an object of pity passing. 


140 


THIS HEART OF A BOY 


Always pretend not to see a person who has a strange or repulsive 
deformity. Extinguish the lighted match that thou wilt find at 
thy feet , which might cause some one to lose his life. Always 
answer with kindness the stranger who asks thee to point out the 
way. Never laugh in any one 1 s face , never run without necessity , 
and do not shout. Respect the street. The degree of education of a 
person is judged more by the way he behaves in the street than by 
anything else. A person who will offend in the street will offend in 
the home . Study the streets. Study the city where thou livest; 
and, if to-morrow thou wert carried far away , thou wouldst be 
glad to have it present in thy memory , to be able to rehearse it in 
thy thoughts; thy city; thy little home , that which has been for so 
many years thy little world , where thou hast taken thy first steps 
beside thy mother , experienced thy first emotions , opened thy mind 
to the first ideas , and where thou hast found thy first friends. It 
has been a mother to thee. It has educated thee. It has inspired 
thee with noble sentiments , and protected thee. Study its streets , 
its inhabitants y and love it; and , if thou shouldst hear it insulted , 
defend it. 

Thy Father. 


MARCH 

The evening schools 

Thursday the 2nd. 

L<ast night my father took me to visit the evening school in 
our Baretti school-house, which was all lighted up, and the 
workingmen were entering when we arrived. We found the 
principal and the teachers very angry because a short time be¬ 
fore, a pane of glass had been broken out of a window with a 
stone. The janitor, rushing out, had caught a boy who was 
passing, but Stardi, who lives opposite the school, had appeared 
and said: 



THE HEART OE A BOY 


141 


“ It is not he. I saw who did it with my own eyes; it was 
Franti who threw the stone; and he said to me: 1 be careful 
not to tell on me!’ but I am not afraid.’* 

The principal said that Franti would be expelled forever. 
In the meantime, I was watching the workmen who were en¬ 
tering two or three together. More than two hundred had 
already entered. 1 had never seen how beautiful the evening 
school is. There were boys from twelve years old up, and 
whiskered men who came back from work carrying books; 
there were carpenters, firemen with black faces, masons with 
their hands white with lime, bakers with their hair all pow¬ 
dered, you could smell varnish, hides, beeswax, oil, and odors 
from all kinds of trades. A squad of artillerymen entered, 
in their uniforms and led by a corporal. They went quietly 
to their benches, removed the board underneath upon which 
we put our feet, bent their heads and commenced work 
immediately. 

Some of them went to the teacher and asked explanations 
concerning the lesson. I saw the young, well-dressed teacher, 
“TheTittle Tawyer,” surrounded by three or four workmen 
at the desk, making some corrections with his pen. I saw a 
lame boy who lives with a dyer. He had a book all stained 
with red and blue dyes. My teacher has recovered and he 
was there, too. Tomorrow, he will return to school. The 
doors of the class rooms were all open. Wh.en they commenced 
the lessons, I was surprised to see how attentive they all were, 
with their eyes fixed on their books. The principal said that 
the greater number, in order not to be late, had not even 
stopped at home to eat a mouthful of supper and were hungry. 
After a half hour of school, some of the younger ones could 
scarcely keep awake ; some of them would fall asleep with their 
heads on the desk, and the teacher would waken them by 
tickling their ears with a pen holder. The older ones kept 
awake and sat with their mouths wide open, listening to the 
lessons without even winking. It seemed strange to see all 


142 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


those bearded men in our benches. We went to the upper 
floor, and I ran to the door of my class room and saw at my 
place a man with a large mustache who had his hand bandaged; 
perhaps he had hurt himself in working around some machin¬ 
ery, and still he tried to write, 

What pleased me most was to see in the place of the Little 
Mason, right on the same bench and in the very same corner, 
his father as big as a giant, who sat there all curled up in such 
a narrow space, with his chin on his fist and his eyes on the 
book, so intent upon his lesson that he hardly breathed, and 
he was not there by chance. The first night he came to school 
he said to the principal: 

“ Signor principal, do me the favor of putting me in the 
same place that my ‘ hare face ' has. ’ ’ He always speaks of his 
son in that way. 

My father kept me there until the close, and when we came 
out, we saw on the street many women with babes in their 
arms waiting for their husbands, and they would take the 
books from the men and the men carried the children, and all 
went home in that way. For a moment the street was filled 
with people and noise, then all was silent, and we saw only the 
tall and weary figure of the principal who was going home. 


THE FIGHT 

Sunday the yth. 

It was what might have been expected. Franti, having 
been expelled from the school by the principal, wanted to 
avenge himself, and he waited for Stardi at the corner of the 
street after school was over. When he was going by with his 
sister—for whom he calls every day at an institute in via Dora 
Grossa—Franti challenged him. My sister Silvia, coming from 
her school, saw it all, and came home thoroughly frightened. 
This was what happened: Franti, with his cap of wax-cloth 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


143 


drawn over his ears, ran on tip-toe behind Stardi and pulled 
his sister’s braid of hair, giving it such a strong pull that he 
almost threw her on the ground. The little girl uttered a cry 
and Stardi turned around. Franti, who is very much taller and 
stronger than Stardi, thought: 

“ He will not utter a word; or, if he does, I will break his 
bones. ” 

But Stardi did not stop to reflect, and, small and thick-set 
as he is, he jumped upon that big fellow and began to beat him 
with his fists. However, he could not hold his own and was 
receiving more than he gave. There was no one but girls in 
the street, and they could not separate them. Franti threw 
him on the ground, but he got up instantly, and then down he 
went again on his back, and Franti pounded away as though 
he were striking a door; in a moment he tore off half of his 
ear, bruised one eye and made his nose bleed. But Stardi was 
tenacious and roared: 

“ You may kill me, but I will make you pay dear for it! ” 
And Franti was down again, kicking and cuffing, and Stardi 
from under was butting him with his head and striking him 
with his heels. A woman cried from the window: “ Bravo, 
little fellow!” Others were saying: “It is a brother who 
defends his sister.” “ Courage! ” “ Beat him hard! ” And 

they all shouted to Franti: “You coward; you overbearing 
brute!” But Franti was growing more and more ferocious, 
and holding out his leg he caused Stardi to fall and was on top 
of him again. 

“Surrender!” “No!” “Surrender!” “No!” In a 
flash Stardi was on his feet; he grabbed Franti by the vest and 
with a furious blow hurled him upon the pavement and fell 
with his knee upon his chest. “ Ah! the infamous fellow! he has 
a knife! ” cried a man, running to disarm Franti. But Stardi 
was beside himself with rage and grasped Franti’s arm with 
both hands, biting his fist so hard that Franti dropped the 
knife. His hand was bleeding. Several more people had come 


144 


THE HEART OP A BOY 


up by this time, who separated them and put them on their 
feet again. Franti ran away in a sorry plight, and Stardi stood 
there with his face all scratched, with a black eye, but the 
victor. 

His sister was still crying and some of the girls were pick¬ 
ing up the books and copy-books which were scattered in the 
street. They were saying all around: “Bravo! little fellow, 

‘ ‘ who has defended his sister. ” But Stardi was thinking more 
of his satchel than of his victory, and immediately began to 
examine the books one by one to see if there was anything 
missing or spoiled. He cleaned the books with his sleeve, 
looked at the pen, put everything back in its place, and then 
as quiet and serious as ever, said to his sister: “ Tet us 
go, as I have a composition to write and four problems to 
solve. * ’ 


THE BOYS’ RELATIVES 

Monday the 6th. 

This morning Stardi’s father, a big, tall fellow, was wait¬ 
ing for his son, fearing that he might meet Franti again; but 
they say Franti will not trouble us any more, as they are going 
to put him in the reform school. Many of the parents were 
there this morning. Among them was the wood-huckster, the 
father of Coretti, whose son is a perfect image of l.im—quick, 
jolly, with a tiny mustache brought to a point, and two colors 
of ribbon in the buttonhole of his jacket. I know the relatives 
of nearly all the boys from seeing them when they call for 
them. There is a grandmother, bowed down, who wears a 
white cap, and no matter if it rains or snows, she calls four 
times a day to take to and from school her little grandson who 
belongs to the upper primary. She takes off his coat, fixes his 
necktie, brushes him, polishes him up, and looks at his copy¬ 
books; one can see that she has no other thought, that she sees 
nothing in this world that is nicer than he. The artillery 


The heart of a boy 


145 


captain comes often, the father of Robetti, the boy who walks 
on crutches and who saved the child from under the omnibus, 
and as all the companions of his son as they pass salute him, 
he returns the compliment to every one, and never forgets any 
one. He bends down over each boy, and no matter if they are 
poor and badly dressed, he only seems the more pleased and is 
always ready to thank them. 

At times we see some very sad things. One gentleman 
did not come for a whole month, as his son had died, and he 
sent a maid-servant for the other. Returning yesterday and 
seeing the classmates of his little dead son, he went into a 
corner and broke down sobbing, putting his hands over his 
face. The principal took him by the arm and led him into his 
office. 

There are fathers and mothers who know by name all the 
companions of their children. There are some girls of the 
neighboring schools, and some High School pupils who 
call for their younger brothers. There is an old gentleman, 
who was a colonel, who, when he sees a boy drop a pen or a 
book in the middle of the street, picks it up for him. One can 
also see nicely dressed ladies who talk about school matters 
with other women who wear handkerchiefs on their heads and 
carry baskets on their arms and who say: 

“It was a very difficult problem this time!” “That 
grammar lesson will never come to an end this morning ! ” 

If any of the boys in the class are sick, they all know it; 
when he gets better, they all rejoice. This morning, there 
were eight or ten gentlemen, ladies, and working women 
around Crossi’s mother, the vegetable vender, to inquire about 
the poor boy of my brother’s class who lives in her court, and 
who is very low. It seems that a school makes everybody 
friends and equals. 


146 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


NUMBER 78 . 

Wednesday the 8th . 

Last evening, I witnessed a very touching scene. For 
some time, whenever the vegetable woman passed by Derossi 
she would look at him with an expression of great affection; 
as Derossi, after having found out about the ink-stand and the 
prisoner of number 78 , has fallen very much in love with her 
son Crossi, the little fellow with the red hair and the withered 
arm, and helps him to do his work at school, prompts his 
answers, gives him paper, pens, and pencils; in short, treats 
him like a brother, as though to compensate him for his 
father’s misfortune, which he understands perfectly well. 

The vegetable vender had been gazing at Derossi for several 
days and seemed loth to take her eyes from him. She is a 
good woman and lives only for her boy, and Derossi, who 
assists him to recite his lessons well, Derossi, who is a little 
gentleman and the first of the school, seems to her like a king 
or a saint. For several days she has gazed at him all the time 
and acted as though she wished to tell him something but felt 
ashamed. Yesterday morning, she at last took courage and 
stopped him in front of the big door, saying: 

“ Please excuse me, little master, you who are so good and 
who like my son so well, do me the kindness to accept this 
little souvenir from a poor woman,” and she pulled from her 
vegetable basket a white and gold pasteboard box. 

Derossi blushed to the roots of his hair and refused it, say¬ 
ing resolutely: “Give it to your son, I will not accept any¬ 
thing.” 

The woman looked mortified and begged his pardon, stam¬ 
mering: ” I did not mean to offend you. They are nothing 
but caramels.” 

But Derossi said “ No” again, shaking his head. 

Then the woman drew from her basket a little bunch of 
























































































































































































































































4 




\ 








THE HEART OF A BOY 


147 


radishes and said timidly; “At least accept these, they are 
fresh; you may take them to your mother.” 

Derossi smiled and said: “ No, thanks, I do not wish any¬ 
thing. I shall always do all I can for Crossi. I cannot accept 
anything, but I thank you just the same.” 

‘ ‘ But you are not offended ? ’' anxiously asked the woman. 

Derossi said no twice, smiling, and left her; while she ex¬ 
claimed with delight: 

“ Oh, what a good boy ! I have never before seen such a 
nice boy as he is ! ” 

That appeared to 
be the end of it; 
but, behold, at four 
o’clock in the fore¬ 
noon, instead of the 
mother of Crossi, 
his father appears, 
with his white and 
melancholy face. 

He stopped Derossi 
and from the way 
he looked at him, I 
immediately sur¬ 
mised that he sus¬ 
pected Derossi 
knew his secret. 

He looked him straight in the eye and said, in a sad and touch¬ 
ing voice: 

“ You like my son. Why do you like him so well ? ,l 

Derossi’s face grew as red as fire. He would have liked to 
answer: “ I love him because he has been so afflicted, also 
because you, his father, have been more unfortunate than 
guilty, and have nobly expiated your crime, and are a man of 
heart. ’ ’ 

But he lacked the courage to say it; because, at the bottom 





148 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


of his heart he still felt fear and almost loathing in the presence 
of this man who had spilled the blood of another and who had 
spent six years in a prison. 

The man guessed everything, and, lowering his voice, he 
said in Derossi’s ear, while trembling: 

‘ ‘ If you love my child, you do not dislike me.—You do not 
despise the father, do you ? ” 

“ No! no! on the contrary,” exclaimed Derossiwitha soul¬ 
ful impulse. 

Then the man made an impetuous movement as though he 
wished to put his arm around Derossi’s neck, but he dared not, 
and instead he took one of his golden curls and smoothed it 
between two of his fingers. Releasing it, he placed his hand 
upon his mouth and kissed the palm of it, looking at Derossi 
with wet eyes as if to make him understand that the kiss was 
meant for him. He then took his son by the hand and went 
away with hurried steps. 


THE LITTLE DEAD BOY 

Monday the ijtk. 

The classmate of my brother, who belongs to the upper 
first, and who lives in the court-yard of the vegetable vender, 
is dead. Mistress Delcati, all sorrowful, came, Saturday after¬ 
noon, to inform the master of his death; Garrone and Coretti 
immediately offered their services to carry the coffin. The 
dead child was a nice little boy. He earned the medal last 
week. He loved my brother and had given him a broken 
money box. My mother always patted him when she met him. 
He wore a cap with two bands of red ribbon on it. His father 
is porter at a railway station. 

Last evening, which was Sunday, we called at the house to 
go with the body from there to the church. We remained on 
the ground floor. The court-yard was filled with boys of 
the upper-first, with their mothers, and they were holding can- 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


149 


dies. Five or six teachers and some of the neighbors were 
also there. The teacher who wears the red feather and Mis¬ 
tress Delcati had gone into the house, and we could see through 
a window that they were crying, and we could hear the mother 
of the child sobbing very loud. Two ladies, both mothers of 
two schoolmates of the dead boy, had brought two wreaths of 
flowers. 

We started out at five o’clock sharp. A boy carrying a 
cross was at the head of the procession, then a priest; after 
the priest, the coffin—a very small one, poor child—covered 
with black cloth upon which were laid the two wreaths of flow¬ 
ers presented by the ladies. The medal and the honorary 
mention, which the boy had earned during the year, were 
fastened to the black cloth on the side of the coffin. Garrone 
and Coretti with two other boys of the court were carrying the 
bier. Behind the coffin, first of all, came Mistress Delcati, who 
wept as though the little boy had been her own child; behind 
her, the other teachers; and behind the teachers the boys, some 
of the smallest of whom were carrying bouquets of violets in 
one hand, looking at the bier as if stupefied, their other hand 
clinging to their mothers, who carried the candles for them. 
I heard one of them ask: ‘ ‘ And will he never go to school 

again?” 

When the coffin was carried out of the court, a heart-rend¬ 
ing cry was heard from the window. It was the mother of the 
child, but they soon persuaded her to go back to her rooms. 
When we reached the street, we met the pupils of a boarding 
school, passing in a double row, and, seeing the bier with the 
medal and the school mistresses, they all took off their caps. 
Poor fellow ! He went to sleep forever with his medal. We 
shall never again see him with his red cap. He was in his usual 
health, and yet in a few days he died. The last day, he made an 
effort to sit up and work at his lesson in word-lists, and 
wished to have his medal on the bed, fearing some one might 
take it from him. No one will ever take it from you, poor 


150 


THE HEART OE A BOY 


child. Farewell ! Farewell ! We shall always remember you at 
the Baretti school. Sleep in peace, little boy. 


THE DAY BEFORE THE 14TH OF MARCH 

This day has been a merrier one than yesterday. It is the 
thirteenth of March ! The eve of the distribution of the prizes 
to take place at the theatre Vittorio Emanuele, the grand and 
beautiful feast of every year. This tinm the boys who have 
to go on the stand and distribute the prizes as they are pre¬ 
sented, are not picked up at haphazard. The principal came 
into the school room this morning, after the class was over, and 
said: 

“I have good news for you, boys.” Then he called 
‘ ‘ Coraci! ’ ’ the Calabrian boy. 

The Calabrian boy stood up. “ Will you be one of those 
who carry the prize certificates to the authorities in the theatre 
to-morrow ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” the Calabrian boy replied. 

“Very well, ” said the principal, “ then there will also be a 
representative of Calabria, and it will be a fine thing. The 
municipality has wished this year that the ten or twelve boys 
who hand the prizes should be boys from all parts of Italy, chos¬ 
en from the different public schools. We have twenty public 
schools and five annexes, seven thousand pupils in all. Among 
such a large number, it was not difficult to find boys belonging 
to the different regions of Italy. Two representatives of the 
Islands, a Sardinian and a Sicilian, were found in the Torquato 
Tasso school house. The Boncompagni school furnishes a 
little Florentine, the son of a wood carver. There is a Roman 
born in Rome from the Tommaseo school. There are Vene¬ 
tians, Lombards, natives of Romagna, a Neapolitan from the 
Monviso school, the son of an army officer. Our school furnishes 
a Calabrian, you, Coraci, and a Genoese, and including the 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


151 


Piedmontese, that will make twelve. It will be very nice, 
don't you think so ? Your brothers from all parts of Italy will 
be there. When the twelve appear together on the stage, you 
must receive them with a roar of applause. They are only 
boys, but they represent the country as if they were men. 
A small tri-colored flag is as much an emblem of Italy as a large 
banner, is it not true? Applaud them very warmly; show that 
your little hearts are all aglow and that the soul of a ten year 
old boy grows enthusiastic in the presence of the holy image 
of your country.” Having said that, he left. 

The teacher, smiling, said: “Well, Coraci, you are the 
deputy of Calabria,” and we all clapped our hands and 
laughed. 

When we reached the street, they surrounded Coraci; some 
of them took him by his legs, lifted him up, and carried him 
in triumph, shouting: “ Hurrah for the deputy of Calabria ! ” 
in order to make a noise, of course, not to make fun of him, 
but rather to honor him with all our hearts, as he is a boy 
whom everybody likes; and he smiled. They carried him thus 
to the corner of the street, where they ran across a gentleman 
with a black beard, who began to laugh. The Calabrian boy 
said: “That is my father.” And then the boys placed his 
son in his arms and scampered away in all directions. 


THE distribution of prizes 

March the 14th. 

At two o’clock in the afternoon, the theatre was crowded, 
jammed full, with thousands of boys, ladies, teachers, work¬ 
men, women of the people, and little children. There was a 
flutter of feathers, a moving of hats, ribbons, and curls. A loud 
and merry murmur was heard from every side. The theatre 
was decorated with festoons of red, white, and green cloth, 
They had built two little staircases from the stage down to the 



152 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


parquet: one on the right, for those who ascended upon it; the 
other one to the left, by which they were to come down after 
they had received the prizes. A row of red arm chairs were 
placed on the front of the platform, and on the back of one of 
the chairs hung a laurel wreath. At the back of the platform 
was a trophy of flags, and on one side a green table, upon which 
lay all the prize certificates, tied up in tri-colored ribbons. The 
band stood in the parquet under the; stage. The teachers and 
the mistresses filled one-half of the first gallery, which had 
been reserved for them. The seats and aisles of the pit, were 
crammed with boys who were to sing, and they were holding 
their music in their hands. In the background and all around, 
one could see teachers and mistresses placing in due order 
those who were to receive prizes; and their parents were giving 
a last touch to their hair and a last pull to their neckties. 

As soon as I entered a side box with my parents, I noticed 
in the box in front of us the teacher who wears a red feather, 
who laughed, showing the beautiful dimples in her cheeks, 
and in her company was my brother’s teacher, and also the 
“Little Nun,” all dressed in black: also with them was my 
good teacher of the first upper, who looked so pale, poor 
woman, coughing so hard that she could be heard from one 
side of the theatre to the other. In the pit, I immediately saw 
that dear big face of Garrone and the little blonde head of 
Nelli, who was clinging close to his shoulder. A little further 
ahead, I saw Garoffi, with his nose like an owl’s beak, who was 
making a great effort to collect the printed lists of those who 
had won the prizes; he had already gathered a large pile 
which he put to some use in bartering—as we will find out 
to-morrow. Next to the door was the wood huckster with his 
wife, both in their Sunday clothes, with their boy who was to 
receive the third prize of the second class. I was astonished 
to see him without the cat-skin cap and the chocolate colored 
jacket; this time he was dressed like a little gentleman. I saw 
for a moment, in one of the galleries, Votini with a large lace 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


153 


collar, and then he disappeared. In a proscenium-box, jammed 
with people, there was the artillery captain, the father of 
Robetti, the boy who walks on crutches and who saved the 
child from under the omnibus. 

At the stroke of two, the band began to play and at that 
moment the mayor, the prefect, the judge, the state-attorney, 
and many other gentlemen, all dressed in black, ascended the 
stairway on the left and seated themselves in large arm-chairs 
on the front of the platform. The band stopped playing, the 
director of the singing school came to the front with a baton in 
his hand. At a signal from him all the boys in the pit arose, 
and, obeying another signal, they commenced to sing. There 
were seven hundred who sang a most beautiful song! Seven 
hundred voices of boys who sang together — how beautiful it 
was! The people were all silent, listening to that sweet song, 
a limpid and gentle melody like a church chant. When the 
song was ended, they all applauded, and then the organ was 
silent again. The distribution of prizes was about to com¬ 
mence. The little teacher of the second class, with his red head 
and bright eyes, had already come to the front of the stage, as 
he had to read the names of those who were to receive prices. 
He awaited the entrance of the twelve boys who were to hand 
over the certificates. The newspapers had already announced 
that there would be boys from all the provinces of Italy. They 
all knew it, and expected them, looking eagerly toward the 
side from which they would enter. The mayor, the other gen¬ 
tlemen on the stage, the whole theatre was silent. Suddenly, 
the twelve came running upon the stage and stood in line, 
smiling. The whole audience — three thousand persons 
sprang to their feet at once, breaking into an uproar which 
seemed like a roar of thunder. The boys were for a moment 
dumfounded. 

“Behold Italy! “ said a voice from a box. I recognized 
Coraci, the Calabrian boy, dressed in black as he usually is. 
A gentleman of the municipality was with us who knew them 


154 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


all and was pointing them out to my mother: “ The little 
blonde is a representative of Venice. The Roman boy is that 
tall lad with the curly hair. ’ ’ There were two or three dressed 
like the sons of well-to-do people; the others were sons of work¬ 
men; but all were of good appearance and clean. The Floren¬ 
tine boy, who was the smallest of all, had a blue sash around 
his waist. They all filed in line in front of the mayor, who 
kissed them on the forehead one after another, while the 
gentleman nearest to him was telling him the names of the 
cities which each one represented: “ Florence, Naples, Bo¬ 
logna, Palermo ” And as every one passed, the audi¬ 
ence would clap their hands. They all moved toward the 
green table to take up the certificates, and the teacher began to 
read the list, calling out the different schools, the classes and 
names, and those who received the prizes began to go up, 
passing in line. 

Hardly had the first one ascended, when from behind the 
scenes a very soft music of violins was heard, which continued 
during all the time they were passing; a gentle air, which re¬ 
sembled the murmur of many soft voices; the voices of all the 
mothers, of all the teachers and mistresses, as if they were 
giving advice, begging, or administering loving reproofs all to¬ 
gether. In the meantime, those who received the prizes were 
passing one after another in front of those gentlemen sitting 
there, who handed them the certificates, whispering to each 
one a sweet word or bestowing a kind caress. The boys from 
the pit and from the galleries applauded every time that a very 
small lad passed, or one dressed like a poor boy, or those who 
had an abundance of blonde curls and who wore red and white 
garments. Some of the boys from the upper first would get 
confused in passing and did not know which way to turn, and 
the whole house laughed. One passed by, who was not more 
than two spans high, with a large bow of red silk ribbon on 
his back; he could hardly walk and stumbled upon the carpet 
and fell; the prefect put him on his feet again, and they all 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


155 


laughed and clapped their hands. Another lad stumbled in 
going down the stairway into the pit. Some people shouted, 
but he was not hurt. All sorts of boys passed; some with 
roguish faces, some with faces as red as cherries, some very 
small and cunning ones, who laughed in the face of everybody 
and as soon as they came down into the pit, were taken 
away by their fathers and mothers. When it came the turn of 
our school, I was very much amused. Many passed by that I 
knew; Coretti, newly dressed from head to foot, with that 
beautiful merry smile of his showing all his white teeth. Who 
knows how many myriagrams of wood he had carried that 
morning? When the mayor handed him his certificate, he 
asked him the meaning of the red mark which he had on his 
forehead, and in doing so laid one hand on his shoulder. I 
looked around in the pit and noticed his father and mother. 
They were laughing, covering their mouths with their hands. 
Then Derossi passed by, all dressed in blue with shining but¬ 
tons, with his golden curls, holding his head high, so hand¬ 
some, so sympathetic, that I wished to throw him a kiss, while 
all those gentlemen wanted.to speak and shake hands with him. 
The teacher cried out: “ Giulio Robetti! ” And the son of 
the artillery captain was seen coming on his crutches. Hun¬ 
dreds of boys knew of the occurrence and the news was scat¬ 
tered around in a moment; a tempest of applause broke out 
which made the theatre tremble; the men rose to their feet, the 
ladies began to wave their handkerchiefs, and the poor boy 
halted in the middle of the stage, astounded and trembling. 
The mayor drew him to his side, gave him the prize and kissed 
him, and taking the laurel wreath from the large chair, he 
placed it on the bar of one of his crutches. Then he escorted 
him as far as the proscenium-box, where his father was seated, 
and the latter lifted him bodily and placed him inside, in the 
midst of an indescribable shouting of ‘ ‘ Bravo! Hurrah! ’ ’ 
During all this time, the soft, gentle music of the violins con¬ 
tinued to fill the ear, and the boys were still passing; those of 


156 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


the Consolata, almost all sons of workmen; those of the Bon- 
compagni, of whom many were farmers’ boys; those of the 
Rayneri school, who were the last of all to pass. 

As soon as it was over, the seven hundred boys in the pit 
sang another most beautiful song. Then the mayor spoke, and 
after him the judge, who terminated his .speech by saying to 
the boys: 

“ But do not leave this place without giving a salute to 
those who toil hard for you and who have consecrated to you 
all their power, all their intelligence, all their heart, who live 
and die for you. There they are! ’ ’ and he pointed to the gal¬ 
lery where the teachers were; and from the galleries, from the 
boxes, from the pit, all the boys arose and extended their arms 
toward the teachers and mistresses, who answered by waving 
their hands, hats and handkerchiefs, all standing, with a feel¬ 
ing of deepest emotion in their hearts. After this, the band 
played again and the audience sent a last noisy salute to the 
twelve boys from all the provinces of Italy, who presented them¬ 
selves at the proscenium in line with their hands interlaced and 
under a shower of bouquets! 

A QUARREL 

Monday the 20th . 

It was not on account of envy because he had won the first 
prize and not myself, that I quarreled with Coretti this morn¬ 
ing. No, it was not on account of envy; still I was in the 
wrong. The teacher had placed him next to me; I was writing 
upon my copy-book and he pushed me with his elbow and 
caused me to make a blot and spoil the monthly story, ‘ ‘ Blood 
of Romagna ,” which I had to copy for the “ Little Mason” 
who is sick. I got angry and said a rude word to him. 

He smilingly answered: “ I did not do it purposely.” 

I ought to have believed him, for I know him; but he vexed 
me because he smiled, and I thought: “ Oh, now that he has 


THE HEART OE A BOY 


157 


had the first prize, he has grown proud.” And, soon after, 
to avenge myself, I gave him a push which spoiled a whoie 
page. 

He reddened with anger and said to me: “ You did that 
purposely,” and lifted up his hand. 

The teacher saw him and he put it down again, but he added: 
* 1 I will wait for you outside! ’ ’ 

I felt ill at ease; my anger cooled off and I repented. No, 
Coretti could not have done it purposely; he is good, I thought. 
I remember when I saw him at his home, how he worked and 
how he assisted his sick mother, and then how warmly I had 
welcomed him at my home, and how well my father had liked 
him. How much I would have given if I had not said that 
rude word, if I had not insulted him! The advice which my 
father had given me came to my mind. 

“Are you in the wrong?” “Yes.” “Then ask his 
pardon.” 

But this I did not dare to do. I was afraid to humiliate 
myself. I looked at him from the corner of my eye; I saw his 
coat was ripped on the shoulder, perhaps because he had car¬ 
ried too much wood. I felt that I liked him, and I said to my¬ 
self: “ Courage! ” but the words, “ I beg your pardon,” stuck 
in my throat. 

He looked at me askance from time to time and seemed to 
be more worried than angry. But then I also looked at him 
disdainfully, to show him that I was not afraid. 

He repeated: “ We will meet outside! ” and I, “ We will 
meet outside! ” But I was thinking of what my father had 
told me once: “ If thou art wrong, defend thyself, but do not 
strike! ” 

And I said to myself: “ I will defend myself, but I will 
not strike. ’ ’ 

However, I felt discontented and sad. I could no longer 
listen to the teacher. 

At last the school closed. When I was in the street alone, 




158 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


I saw that Coretti was following me. I halted and stood still, 
awaiting him with my ruler in my hand. 

He approached me, I raised the ruler. No, Enrico,” 
said he, with his kind smile, putting aside the ruler with his 
hand, “let us be friends again as before.” 

I was stupified for a moment, then I felt as though a hand 
had pushed my shoulder, and I found myself in his arms. 

He kissed me and said: “ No more quarrels between us! ” 

“No, never! Never! Never!” I answered. We sep¬ 
arated satisfied. But when I ran home and told all to my 
father, thinking to please him, he frowned and said: 

“You ought to have been the first one to extend your hand 
because you were wrong!” Then he added: “ You ought 
not to have raised the ruler upon a schoolmate better than 
yourself; upon the son of a soldier!” And snatching the 
ruler from my hand, he broke it in pieces and threw it against 
the wall. 


MY SISTER 

Friday the 24th. 

Why is it, Enrico, that, after our father had reproved you for 
having behaved so badly with Coretti, you have still been so unkind 
to me? You cannot imagine the grief I have felt. Do you know 
that when you were a baby, I would stand hours and hours beside 
your cradle instead of going to amuse myself with my compan¬ 
ions; and when you were sick, I would leave my bed in the middle 
of the night to see if your forehead was hot ? Do you not know 
that if a terrible mishap should strike us, I would act as a mother 
to you, I would love you ? Do you not know that when our father 
and mother will not be a?iy longer here below , I will be your best 
friend? The only one with whom you may be able to speak of our 
bereaved dead, and of your childhood! And that if it were neces¬ 
sary, I would work for you, Enrico, in order to earn bread and to 
allow you to study, and that I will always love you when you are 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


159 


a man, and that I willfollow you with my thoughts when you go far 
away, because we have grown up together and we have the same 
blood in our veins! Oh, Enrico, be sure that when you are a 
man, if a misfortune should befall you, if you should be alone, be 
sure that you will look for me; that you will come to me arid cry: 

‘ ‘ Silvia, my sister, allow me to stay with you! Let us speak of 
the times when we were happy, do you remember? Let us speak 
of our mother, of our home, of the thousand beautiful days, so far 



away! ” Oh, Enrico, you will always find your sister with her 
arms open to you. Yes, dear Emico, forgive me also for the 
reproof that I have bestowed upon you . Now, I shall never 
remember any wrong on your part; and, even if you should 
cause me other sorrows, what do I care ? You will always be my 
brother just the same. I shall only recollect my having held you in 
my arms when you were a baby; of having loved father and 
mother with you; of having seen you grow up, and of having 





160 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


been for many years your trusted companion! But do write me a 
good word upon this very writing-book, and I will get it and 
read it before evening, hi the meantime, to show you that I am 
not angry with you, seeing that you were tired, I have copied the 
monthly story, “ Blood of Romagna, ’ ’ which you had to do for the 
“ Little Mason,” who is sick. Look in the drawer at the left of 
your desk. I wrote it last night while you were asleep. I beg of 
you, Enrico, write a good word to me. 

Your Sister Silvia . 


Dear Sister: 

I am not worthy to kiss your hand. 


Enrico. 


BEOOD OF ROMAGNA 

(MONTHLY STORY) 

The house of Ferruccio was quieter than usual that eve¬ 
ning. The father, who kept a little dry-goods store, had gone 
to Forli to make some purchases and his wife had accompanied 
him, taking with them the little girl, Luigina, to see a doctor 
who was to perform an operation upon one of her eyes which 
had become diseased; and they would not return before the 
next morning. It was nearly midnight. The woman who 
came to work by the day had gone at sunset. There was no 
one in the house but the grandmother, whose lower limbs were 
paralyzed, and Ferruccio, a boy of thirteen. It was a small 
house with only a ground floor. It was situated upon the 
highway, within gunshot of the village, a little distance from 
Forli, a city in Romagna. Next to this dwelling there was an 
empty house, which had been partly burned two months before, 
and upon which one could still see the sign of an inn. There 
was a small vegetable garden behind the little house, and it 
was surrounded by a hedge through which opened a small rustic 
gate. The door of the shop served as house-door also and 
opened upon the highway. A deserted country extended on 












•xsV: : 

U Yr 


mmm 




























































I I 









- • 
' 
































































































THE HEART OF A BOY 


161 


every side, vast cultivated fields planted with mulberry trees. 

It was nearly midnight. Rain fell and the wind blew. 
Ferruccio and the grandmother were still up and were sitting 
in the dining-room, between which and the garden was a little 
room encumbered with old pieces of furniture. Ferruccio did 
not come home until eleven that night, after an absence of sev¬ 
eral hours, and the grandmother had expected him with open 
eyes, full of anxiety. She was sitting in a large arm-chair, 
where she was accustomed to pass the whole day, and, at times, 
even the whole night, as an oppression of breath would not 
allow her to lie down. 

The wind dashed the 
rain against the window 
panes; the night was very 
dark. Ferruccio had come 
home tired and muddy, with 
his coat all torn, and with 
the mark of a stone on his 
forehead. He had been 
fighting with his compan¬ 
ions, using stones as weap¬ 
ons ; as usual, they had 
come to blows. Not satis¬ 
fied with that, he had gam¬ 
bled and lost all his soldi, and had left his cap in a ditch. 

Although the room was lighted only by a small oil lamp 
placed on the corner of the table next to the big arm-chair, 
still the grandmother had noticed in what a miserable plight her 
grandson was, and she had partly guessed and partly made him 
confess his misdeeds. 

She loved the boy with all her soul. When she knew 
everything, she began to weep. 

“No, no,” she said after a long silence, “You have no 
heart for your poor grandmother. You have no heart if you 
will take advantage of the absence of your father and mother 




162 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


in that way and cause me grief. You have left me alone the 
whole day long. You have not had the least bit of pity for 
me. Beware, Ferruccio! You put yourself in a bad way 
which may lead to a sad end. I have seen others commence 
in the same way and become very bad. One commences by 
running away from home, by quarreling with the other boys, 
by gambling one’s soldi, and, little by little, from stone fights 
the boy passes to stabbing with knives, and from gambling to 

other vices, and from vices-to thieving! ” 

Ferruccio stood about three paces from her leaning on a 
cupboard and listening with his chin dropped on his breast. 
He was frowning, still excited from the heat of the fight; a 
lock of his luxuriant auburn hair hung across his forehead, and 
his beautiful blue eyes were as transfixed. 

“ From gambling to thieving,” repeated the grandmother, 
continuing to weep. ‘ ‘ Think, Ferruccio, think of that scourge 
of this section of the country, of that Vito 'Mozzoni, who is 
now in the city, a ragged vagabond, who, at the age of twenty- 
four, has already been twice in prison, and caused his poor 
mother, whom I knew well, to die of a broken heart, and his 
father to flee to Switzerland in despair. Think: of that per¬ 
verse character, whose greeting your father is ashamed to 
answer. He is always around with men who are more wicked 
than himself, and he will continue to grow worse until he comes 
to the gallows. Listen, I knew him as a lad, I knew him when 
he was like you. Think that you may lead your father and 
mother to the same end that he has led his parents! ” 

Ferruccio was silent. He was not perverse at heart; on the 
contrary, his escapades arose rather from his superabundance 
of spirits and from boldness than from wickedness; and his father 
had trained him badly in this respect, holding him capable of 
the finest sentiments, and, when put to the proof, of noble and 
generous actions; so he left the bridle upon his neck, expecting 
that he would become wise without any suggestions. Ferruccio 
was good rather than perverse, but obstinate, and it was very 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


163 


difficult, even wnen his heart was oppressed with repentance, 
for him to allow himself to say those good words which gain 
forgiveness for us: 

“ Yes, I am wrong; I shall not do it again, I promise you; 
forgive me! ’ 

His soul was full of tenderness at times, but his pride pre¬ 
vented it from coming out. 

“ Ah, Ferruccio! ” continued the grandmother, seeing that 
he remained silent. “ You do not say a single word of repent¬ 
ance to me! Do you not see to what a state I am reduced, 
that I am about ready to be buried. You ought not to have 
the heart to make me suffer, to make the mother of your mother 
weep; as old as I am and so near to my last day of life—your 
poor grandmother, who has loved you so much, who rocked 
you night after night when you were a baby but a few months 
old, and who would not eat that she might play with you, do 
you know that ? I always used to say: ‘ This boy will be my 
consolation! ’ But now you will kill me! I would gladly give 
the little that remains of my life to see you be good again, obe¬ 
dient as you were in those days when I led you to the Sanc¬ 
tuary. Do you remember that, Ferruccio? When you filled 
my pockets with little stones and grass ? When I carried you 
home in my arms fast asleep? At that time you loved your 
poor grandmother. Now I am a paralytic. I need your affec¬ 
tion as I need the air which I breathe, because I have no 
one else in this world, poor woman, half dead as I am. Oh, 
Ford!-’ ’ 

Ferruccio was about to throw himself at the feet of his 
grandmother, moved by emotion, when he seemed to hear a 
sly noise, a sort of creaking in the next room, the one 
which opened on the garden. But he could not make out 
whether it was the shutters shaken by the wind or something 
else. 

He stood listening. 

The noise was repeated. His grandmother also heard it. 



164 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


“ What is the matter? ” she asked after a moment, some¬ 
what troubled. 

“ The rain,” murmured the boy. 

“ Then, Ferruccio.” said the old woman, wiping her eyes, 

‘‘ you will promise me to be good; that you will nevermore 
make your poor grandmother weep-’ ’ A new noise inter¬ 

rupted her. 

‘ ‘ It does not seem to be the rain! ’ ’ exclaimed she, growing 
pale, “go and see!” 

But she added immediately: “No, stay here!” and grasped 
Ferruccio by the hand. 

They both stood with suspended breath — they only heard 
the noise of the rain coming down. 

All at once they both shivered. 

It had seemed to them that they heard a noise of feet in the 
little room. 

‘‘Who’s there? ” asked the boy, gathering up his courage. 

No one answered. 

“ Who is there? ” cried the boy again, frightened nearly to 
death. 

Scarcely had he pronounced these words, when they both 
uttered a shriek of terror. Two men sprang into the room; 
one grasped the boy and put his hand over his mouth; the 
other one grabbed the old woman by the throat; the first one 
said: 

“ Silence, if you don’t want to die! ” 

The second: 

‘‘ Hush! ” and he raised a knife. 

Each had a black handkerchief upon his face, with two 
small holes for the eyes. 

Nothing but the gasping breath of the four was heard for a 
moment, and then the dropping of the rain; the old woman’s 
throat rattled and her eyes were starting from their sockets. 

The man who held the boy whispered in his ear: “ Where 
does your father keep his money ? ” 



the heart of a boy 


165 


The boy answered with a faint voice, while his teeth chat¬ 
tered: “ Over there in the cupboard.” 

" Come with me,” said the man. 

He dragged him into the small room, holding him securely 
by the throat. There was a dark lantern upon the floor. 

“ Where is the cupboard ? ” he asked. The boy, gasping, 
pointed out the cupboard. 

Then, in order to be sure of the boy, the man threw him on 
his knees in front of the cupboard, clasping his neck between 
his legs in such a way that he could strangle him if he at¬ 
tempted to cry, and holding the knife in his teeth and the lan¬ 
tern in his hand, he pulled from his pocket, with his other 
hand, a sharp iron point, stuck it into the lock, broke the door 
and opened it on both sides, upset everything in a hurry, closed 
the doors again, and re-opened them to make another search; 
after this he grasped the boy once more by the throat and 
pushed him into the other room where the other fellow was 
holding the old woman, who was in convulsions, with her head 
turned back and her mouth open. 

He asked him in a low voice: “ Have you found it? ” and 
his companion answered: ‘‘ I have found it.” And he added: 
‘ ‘ Took at the door. ’ ’ 

And the one who had been holding the woman ran to the 
door of the garden to see if there was any one there, and he 
said from the little room, with a voice which sounded like a 
whistle, “Come!” 

The one who had remained alone, and who was still hold¬ 
ing Ferruccio, showed a knife to the boy and to the old woman, 
who was re-opening her eyes, and said: “ Not a word, not a 
sound, or I will come back and cut your throat.’ 

And he looked sharply at both for a minute. 

At that moment, the sound of many voices was heard at a 
distance on the highway. 

The thief turned his head quickly toward the door, and in 
doing so the handkerchief fell from his face. 


166 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


The old woman gave vent to a shriek: 4 4 Mozzoni! ’ ’ 

“ Curse you, woman! ” roared the recognized thief. “You 
must die! ” 

He rushed upon her with his knife lifted, and the old 
woman fainted. 

The murderer dealt the blow. 

With a quick movement, and giving a desperate shout, 
Ferruccio had thrown himself upon his grandmother and had 
shielded her with his body. The murderer ran away, 
knocking against the table and upsetting the lamp which 
went out. 

The boy slid down softly from over his grandmother’s body, 
and fell on his knees, remaining in that attitude, with his arms 
around her waist and his head upon her breast. 

A few moments passed; it was very dark; the song of the 
“contadini” was slowly dying out in the distance. The old 
woman recovered her consciousness. 

“Ferruccio!” she called, with a scarcely audible voice, 
while her teeth were chattering. 

‘ 4 Grandmother, ’ ’ answered the boy 

The old woman made an effort to speak, but the fright had 
paralyzed her tongue. 

She remained silent for a moment, trembling violently. 

Finally she succeeded in asking: 

‘ 4 Are they no longer here ? ’ ’ 

“No.” 

44 Have they not killed me?” gasped the old woman in a 
choked voice. 

44 No-you are safe,” said Ferruccio in a faint voice. 

4 4 You are safe, dear grandmother. They have taken the 
money away. But papa had almost everything with him.” 

His grandmother sighed. 

44 Grandmother,” said Ferruccio, still on his knees and 
clasping her around the waist, 44 dear grandmother — you love 
me, do you not ? ’ ’ 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


167 


‘'Oh, Ferruccio! My poor child!” answered the woman, 
placing her hand on his head. “How frightened you must 
have been! Oh, Ford of Mercy! Light the lamp—we are now 
in darkness; I am still afraid.” 

“ Grandmother,” said the boy, “ I have always caused you 
sorrow. ’ ’ 

“ No, Ferruccio, do not speak in that way; I don’t think of 
it any more; I have forgotten, I love you so much! ” 

“ I have always caused you sorrow,” continued Ferruccio, 
speaking with difficulty and in a trembling voice. ‘ ‘ But I have 
always cared for you. Will you forgive me ? Do forgive me, 
grandmother. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, my child, I forgive you, I forgive you with all my 
heart. Just think, if I should not forgive you! Rise up 
from your knees, my child. I will never scold you again. 
Be good, you are so kind, Ferruccio! Let us light the 
lamp. Let us take a little courage. Rise to your feet, Fer¬ 
ruccio. ’ ’ 

“ Thanks, grandmother,” said the boy, speaking each time 
in a fainter voice. “Now 1 am satisfied. You will re¬ 
member me, grandmother will you not ? You will remem¬ 
ber me always-your Ferruccio.” 

“ Oh, my Ferruccio ! ” exclaimed the grandmother, 
astounded and uneasy, placing her hands upon his shoulders 
and leaning her head so as to look in his face. 

“ Remember me,” again murmured the child, in a voice as 

faint as a breath. ‘ ‘ Give a kiss to mother-to father, to 

Luigina-Farewell, grandmother-” 

“ In the name of heaven, what is the matter with you? ” 
cried the woman, anxiously feeling the head of the boy who 
had fallen across her knees; and then, with all the voice she 
had in her throat, she shouted, in desperation: “Ferruccio! 
Ferruccio! Ferruccio! My child! My love! Angels of Para¬ 
dise, help me!” 

But Ferruccio did not answer. The little hero, the savior 





168 


the heart of a boy 


of the mother of his mother, stabbed in the back from the 
knife thrust of the robber, had surrendered his noble soul 
to God ! 


THE EITTEE MASON SERIOUSEY IEE 

Tuesday the iyth. 

The Tittle Mason is dangerously ill. The teacher told us 
to call and see him; and Garrone, Derossi, and myself agreed 
to go together. Stardi might have come, but the teacher gave 
us for a lesson the description of the Cavour Monument, and he 
said that he must go and see the monument in order to write a 
more accurate description. We also invited the vain boy, 
Nobis, just for fun, but he answered us, in a dry manner, 
“ No.” Votini also excused himself, perhaps because he was 
afraid of soiling his clothes with plaster. We went after school 
was over. It was raining. On the way Garrone stopped and 
said, with his mouth full of bread : 

“What are we going to buy ? ” and he jingled two soldi in 
his pocket. 

We gave two soldi each and bought three large oranges. 

We went up to the garret. In front of the door, Derossi 
took off his medal and put it in his pocket. I asked him why. 

“ I don’t know,” he replied. “I do not wish to put on 
any airs—it seems to me more delicate to enter without a 
medal. ’ ’ 

We knocked at the door, and the father opened it for us_ 

that tall man who looks like a giant. He had a sorrowful face 
and looked worn out by grief. 

W^ho are you ? ’ he asked. Garrone answered : 

“We are schoolmates of Antonio, and we are bringing him 
three oranges. ’ ’ 

“Ah, poor Tonino!” exclaimed the mason, shaking his 
head. “I am afraid he will never be able to eat your 
oranges!” and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. 



THE HEART OP A BOY 


169 


He bade us come in. We entered a room under the roof. 
The Little Mason was lying on a little iron bedstead; his 
mother was leaning on the bed with her face in her hands, 
and scarcely turned around to look at us. Some brushes, a 
trowel,and a plaster sieve hung on the wall of the room, and 
over the feet of the sick boy was laid the jacket of the mason, 
all white with plaster. The poor boy was very emaciated, and 
scarcely able to breathe. Oh* dear Tonino, so good and so merry, 
my little companion, how it pained me, how much I would 
have given to see him make the hare face, poor Little Mason! 
Garrone put an orange on the pillow next to his face. The 
odor wakened him; he took it resolutely, but let it go, and 
looked at Garrone fixedly. 

“ It is I, Garrone,” said the latter, “do you not recognize 
me?” 

He smiled, but it was scarcely perceptible, and with diffi¬ 
culty he raised his hand from the bed and reached it to Gar¬ 
rone, who took it between his and laid his cheek upon it, 
saying : 

“ Courage, courage, Little Mason! You will soon recover; 
you will soon return to school, and the teacher will put you 
near me. Are you satisfied ? ” 

But the Little Mason did not answer. The mother burst 
out sobbing : 

“Oh, my little Tonino! My poor Tonino! So brave and 
so good, and to think that God wishes to take him away! ” 

“Hold your tongue! ” cried the mason, in despair. “Be 
silent, for the love of God, or you will make me lose my head! ” 
Then he said, anxiously: 

“ Go, go, boys; thanks; go home; what can you do here? 
Go.” 

The sick boy had closed his eyes again, and looked as 
though he were dead. 

“ Do you need anything ” asked Garrone. 

“No, my good child, thanks,” replied the mason. “Go 


170 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


home.” And as he said this, he pushed us out on the land¬ 
ing and closed the door. 

We were hardly half way down the stairs, when we heard 
him call: 

“ Garrone! Garrone! ” We went up again in a hurry, all 
three of us. 

“Garrone!” cried the mason with a changed voice, “he 
has called you by name. It has been two days since he has 
spoken; he has called you twice; he wants you, come at once. 
Ah, great God! If this were only a good sign! ” 

“Good-bye,” Garrone said to us; “I will stay! ” And he 
rushed into the room with the father. Derossi’s eyes were 
filled with tears. I asked him: 

“Do you weep for the Little Mason? He has spoken, he 
will get well.” 

“I believe it,” replied Derossi. “ But I was not thinking 
of him—I was thinking of that kind and noble soul, Garrone! ” 


THE COUNT CAVOUR 

Wednesday the 29th . 

‘ ‘ Is it not the description of Count Cavour that thou must 
write f Well thou canst do it. But who the Count Cavour was , 
thou canst not yet understand. For the present , learn only this : 
that he was for many years the prime minister of Piedmont; that 
it was he who sent the Piedmontese army into the Crimea to resus¬ 
citate , with the victory of Cernaia , our military glory which had 
fallen with the defeat at Novara. It was he who caused one hun¬ 
dred and fifty thousand French?nen to descend from the Alps and 
chase the Austrians from Lombardy . It was he who governed 
Italy in the most solemn period of our revolution , who gave , dur¬ 
ing those years, the most powerful impulse to the holy undertak¬ 
ing of the unification of the country. He , with his shining talent , 
his invincible constancy , his more than human activity. Many 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


171 


generals passed terrible hours upon the field of battle, but he 
passed moie terrible ones still in his study, while that enormous 
undertaking of his might have crumbled down at any moment, 
like a frail edifice at the shock of an earthquake; hours, nights of 
toil and of anguish, from which he came out with shattered reason 
and with death in his heart. It was this gigantic and fearful 
undertaking, while consumed with fever, that shortened his life 
by twenty years. He still struggled desperately against the dis¬ 
ease in order to do something more for his country. “It is 
strange ," he would say, painfully, upon his death-bed, “ / no 
longer know how to read; I can read no more." While they were 
bleeding him and the fever was increasing, he was thinking of his 
country, and said imperiously: ‘ ‘ Cure my clouding mind; I need 
all my faculties to deal with grave matters. ’ ’ In his last mo¬ 
ments, when the whole city was agitated and the king stood by his 
bedside, he was saying anxiously: “/ have many things to tell 
you, Sire, many things to show you, but I am sick; I cannot do 
it" And he was inconsolable! His feverish thoughts continu¬ 
ally hovered over his country, the new Italian provinces which had 
been united to us, and he was troubled about the many things 
which remained to be done, when fie delirium overtook him. 
“Educate Childhood! ” he exclaimed between his gasps for breath. 
“ Educate Childhood and Youth—govern with freedom! " The 
delirium increased, death was upon him, and he invoked with 
ardent words General Garibaldi, with whom he had had some 
disagreements, and Venice and Rome, which were not yet libera¬ 
ted. He had visions of the future of Italy and of Europe; 
dreamed of foreign invasions; asked where the army corps and 
the generals were—he still trembled for his people. His great sor- 
sow—dost thou understandf—was not to feel his life ebbing out; 
it was to see himself flee from his country, which still needed him 
and for which he had, in a few years, worn out the immeasurable 
powei of his wonderful organism. He died with the cry of battle 
in his throat—his death was as great as his life. Now reflect a 
Uttte, Enrico , what sort of a thing our work is which seems to 


172 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


weigh so much upon us , what are our griefs , what is death itself 
compared to those toils , those formidable anxieties , the tremendous 
agonies of those men upon whom a world and its vital interest 
rests! Think of these , my child , and when thou passeth in front 
of that marble image cry: “ Glory! ” in thy heart. 

Thy Father. 


APRIL 

SPRING 

Saturday the ist. 

The first of April ! Only three more months ! This has 
been one of the finest mornings of the year. I was so happy 
at school because Coretti asked me to go with him to-morrow 
to witness the arrival of the king. His father, who knows the 
king, will accompany us. And also because my mother has 
promised to take me that same day to visit the Infant Asylum in 
Corso Valdocco. I was also content because the “little 
mason * ’ is better, and because last night when the teacher was 
passing he said to my father: “ He is better, he is better.” 

Then, too, it was a beautiful spring morning. From the 
windows of the school-room we could see the blue sky. The 
trees in the garden are all sprouting. The windows of the 
houses were wide open and there were flower-vases and boxes 
filled with blooming plants on the sills. The master did not 
laugh, because he never does, but he was in good humor, so 
much so that the straight wrinkle on his forehead was scarcely 
visible, and while he was explaining a problem upon the black¬ 
board, he jested, and you could see that he felt a pleasure in 
breathing the air which came from the garden through the 
open windows, with that good, fresh fragrance of the earth 
and of the trees, which makes one think of the walks in the 
country. 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


173 


While he was explaining, we could hear a blacksmith in a 
street near by, who was beating something upon the anvil; and 
in the house opposite, a woman sang her babe to sleep. In the 
barracks of Cernaia, far away, the trumpets were sounding. 
The boys all seemed happy, even Stardi. Suddenly, the 
blacksmith began to hammer and the woman to sing in a higher 
key. The teacher stopped to listen. Then he said softly, 
looking out of the window: 

“ A sky which smiles, a mother who sings, an honest work¬ 
man who labors, and some boys who study—that is really a 
fine thing.” 

When we left the class room I noticed that all the others 
were merry. They all walked in file, stamping their feet and 
singing in a playful way, as though it were the eve of a four 
days’ vacation. The school-teachers were jesting; the one 
with the red feather tripped behind the boys like a school girl; 
the parents of the boys were talking to one another, laughing, 
and the mother of Crossi, the vegetable vender, had many bou¬ 
quets of violets in her basket, and they filled the hall with 
perfume. I never experienced so much happiness as on this 
morning when I saw my mother waiting for me in the street, 
and I told her so when I met her. 

‘‘Iam happy, and what is it that makes me so happy this 
morning ? ’ ’ 

My mother smiled and answered that it was the fine season 
and a good conscience. 


KING UMBERTO 

Monday the 3rd. 

At ten o’clock sharp, my father saw Coretti, the wood- 
huckster, and his son, who were waiting for me in the square, 
and he said to me: “ Here they are, Enrico, go and see thy 
king.” 

I went down quickly. The father and son were more alert 


174 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


tnan usual, and it occurred to me that they resembled each 
other very much this morning. The father wore the medal of 
valor upon his jacket between two commemorative medals, and 
his little mustache was curled up and pointed like two pins. 

We started at once toward the railway station, where the 
king was to arrive at half past ten. Coretti’s father smoked 
his pipe and rubbed his hands. “ Do you know,” he would 
say, “ that I have not seen him since the war of sixty-six ? A 
trifle of fifteen years and six months ! First, I spent three 
years in France, then I went to Mondovi, and I have never 
before happened to be in the city when he came. It is all a 
matter of luck ! ’ ’ 

He spoke of King Umberto as he would speak of a com¬ 
rade. “Umberto commanded the sixteenth division; Umberto 
was twenty-two years and as many days old; Umberto rode on 
horseback,” and so on. 

Fifteen years, ’ ’ he said in a loud voice, and quickened 
his step. “ I have a great desire to see him again; I left him 
a prince; I shall see him a king. I have also changed much; 

I have passed from a soldier to a wood-huckster, ’ ’ and he 
laughed. 

His son asked: “ If he sees you, do you think he would 
recognize you ? ’ ’ 

He began to laugh. 

‘ ‘ Are you crazy ? " he replied. “ It would be too hard for 
him. There was only one like him, while we were as thick as 
flies, and he did not stop to look at us one by one.” 

We reached the Corso Vittorio Kmanuele; there were many 
people hurrying toward the station. A company of Alpine 
soldiers with their trumpets were passing; two mounted cara¬ 
bineers went galloping by. The sky was brilliant and serene. 

“ Yes! ” exclaimed Coretti’s father, growing excited. “ I 
am so pleased to see him again, the general of my division. 
Ah, how fast I have grown old! It seems to me but a day 
since I had a knapsack on my shoulder and a gun in my hands, 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


175 


in the midst of that turmoil on the morning of June twenty- 
fourth. when we were about to come into battle. Umberto was 
going and coming with his officers, while the cannons thun¬ 
dered from a distance. All looked at him and said: ‘ L,et us 
hope that there may not be a bullet for him! ’ - I was a thou¬ 
sand miles away in my thoughts, never dreaming that in a few 
moments I should be so near him, in front of the lances of the 
Austrian Uhlans, only four steps from each other, boys! It was 
a beautiful day; the sky was like a looking-glass, but it was 
very warm! — L,et us see if we can enter. ’ ’ 

We had reached the station. There was a large crowd; 
carriages, guards, carabineers, societies with their banners, and 
the band of a regiment was playing. Coretti’s father tried to 
get under the portico, but he found it impossible. Then he 
thought he would put himself in the first line of the crowd 
which was making an opening at the exit. By forcing his 
way with his elbows, he succeeded in pushing himself ahead of 
us. The crowd was wavering and pushing us here and there. 
The wood-huckster had spied the first pillar on the portico 
where the guards allowed no one to stand. “ Come with me,” 
he said, and, taking us by the hand, he crossed the empty space 
with two leaps and placed himself there with his shoulder 
against the wall. 

A police officer ran to him and said: “You cannot stay here. ” 

“ I belonged to the Fourth battalion of the forty-ninth! ” 
answered Coretti, touching his medals. 

The policeman looked at him and said: “ Stay.” 

“ Didn’t I tell you so! ’’ exclaimed Coretti triumphantly. 
“ It is a magic word that Fourth of the forty-ninth! Have I 
not a right to see him, my general, with comfort; I, who was 
in his command! I saw him near then; it is right that I should 
see him near now, and that I call him my general! He 
was my commander in battle for a long half hour, as in those 
moments it was he who commanded the battalion, while he was 
in the midst of it, and not Major Ubrich, by thunder! ” 


176 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


In the meanwhile, we could see in the hall where the trains 
arrived, and outside, a gathering of gentlemen and officers, and 
in front of the door carriages stood in line with the coachmen 
and grooms dressed in red. 

Coretti asked his father if King Umberto had his sword 
in his hand when he was inside the square. 

“ He might have had his sword in his hand,” he answered, 
“ to ward off the blow of a lance, wffiich might have struck him 
as well as any one else. Ah, those unchained demons! They 
came upon us like the wrath of God. They swept around the 
groups, the squares, the cannons, and they seemed like a 
wild wind in a hurricane, breaking through everything. There 
was such a confusion of Allessandria cavalrymen, of Foggia 
lancers, of infantry, of Uhlans, of Bersaglieri—such a pande¬ 
monium that we could not see around us. I heard some one 
crying: ‘Your Highness! Your Highness!’ and saw the 
lowered lances coming. We discharged our guns; a cloud of 

smoke hid everything-Then the cloud vanished-The 

earth was covered with horses of the Uhlans, with wounded 
and with dead. I turned around and saw in our midst Um¬ 
berto on horseback, looking around quietty, as if he were about 
to ask: ‘ Is there any one who has been scratched, my boys! ’ 
And we shouted ‘ Hurrah! ’ right in his face, and acted like 

crazy men. Great God! What a moment that was!-See, 

the train is coming.” 

The band played, the officers took their places, the crowd 
stood on tip-toe. 

“ He will not come out right away,” said a guard. “ They 
are delivering a speech to him.” 

Coretti’s father was beside himself. “Ah, when I think of 
it,” he said, ‘‘I always see him there. He does his duty 
among people afflicted with cholera, among those whose homes 
are destroyed by earthquakes — and anywhere else I know of. 
And brave he was in battle, too; I have him constantly in my 
mind as I saw him then, in the midst of us, with that tranquil 




THE HEART OF A BOY 


177 


face; and I am sure that he also remembers the fourth battalion 
of the forty-ninth, though he is now a king, and he would like 
to see us for once at his table all together, those whom he saw 
once around him in such a moment. Now he has generals and 
lords and high officers; at that time he had nothing but poor 
soldiers. If I could only exchange a few words with him 
alone, our general of twenty-two; our prince, who was then en¬ 
trusted to our bayonets-It is fifteen years since I saw 

him, our Umberto. Ah! this music excites my blood, upon 
my honor! ’’ 

A crash of applause interrupted him. Thousands of hats 
were lifted in the air, four gentlemen dressed in black entered 
the first carriage. 

“It is he!” cried Coretti, remaining there as if dumb¬ 
founded. 

Then he said: “ By our Lady, how grey he has grown! ” 

We all three took off our hats; the carriage was coming 
along slowly, in the midst of the throng, shouting and waving 
their hats. I looked at Coretti’s father. He seemed like an¬ 
other man, he looked as if he had grown taller, stern and pal¬ 
lid, standing close against the pillar. The carriage came in 
front of us not more than a step from the pillar. “ Hurrah ’’ 
cried many voices. 

“ Hurrah! ” cried Coretti after the others. 

The king looked in his face and glanced for a moment at 
his three medals. 

Then Coretti lost his head and shouted: “The fourth 
battalion of the forty-ninth ! ’ ’ 

The king who had already turned to the other side, 
turned again towards us, and, gazing into Coretti’s eyes, 
held his hand out of the carriage. 

Coretti bounded forward and shook it. The carriage moved 
on. The crowd broke in and separated us from each other and 
we lost sight of Coretti’s father, but it was only for a moment. 
We soon found him again, panting, with his eyes wet, and he 



178 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


was calling his son’s name and holding his hand lifted in the 
air. The son hastened to him, and he cried: “Here, little 
fellow, while my hand is still warm,” and he laid his hand 
over his face, saying: “This is a caress from the king.” 

And he stood there as if in a dream, with his eyes fixed 
upon the distant carriage, smiling, with his pipe in his hand, 
in the midst of a group of curious people, who were looking 
at him. “ It is one of the forty-ninth, ’ ’ they were saying. ‘ ‘ It 
is a soldier who knows the king.” “ And the king has recog¬ 
nized him.” “ It is he who reached out his hand.” “ He has 
handed the king a petition,” said one louder than the others. 

“No,” cried Coretti, turning around brusquely; “I have 
handed him no petition. There is something else which I 
would give him.” 

They all looked at him. 

He smiled and said: ‘‘ My life! ’’ 


THE INFANT ASYLUM 

Tuesday the 4th. 

Yesterday, after breakfast, my mother took me to the Infant 
Asylum of Corso Valdocco, as she promised. She went to 
recommend the little sister of Precossi to the directress. I had 
never seen an asylum. How amused I was ! There were two 
hundred little boys and girls, and they were so small that a 
pupil of our first lower class might be taken for a man as com¬ 
pared to them. We arrived just as they were filing into the 
refectory, where there were two long tables with many round 
holes and in each hole a black soup plate, filled with rice and 
beans, and a tin spoon lay beside it. Coming in, some of the 
children fell down and lay on the floor until one of the teachers 
ran to pick them up. Some of them would stop m iront or a 
soup plate, thinking it was tneir place, and hurriedly swallow 
a spoonful, when one of the teachers would come up and say: 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


179 


‘ Go ahead ! ” and he would go three or four steps and swallow 
another spoonful of soup, and then go ahead again until he 
arrived at his own place, having lawlessly taken half a portion 
of soup. At last, after much pushing and crying “ Hurry up ! 
Hurry up ! ” they were all placed in order and began to say 
their prayer. All those in the inside rows, who, in order to 
pray, had to turn their back to the soup plate, would twist 
their heads back to keep an eye on the soup lest some one 
should fish in it; and they prayed in such a funny way, with 
their hands together and their eyes turned toward the ceiling, 
but with their hearts on their soup. Then they began to eat, 
oh, what a sight that was ! One would eat with two spoons, 
another filled his mouth with his hands; some would pick out 
the beans one by one and put them in their pockets; others 
would wrap them up in their little aprons and crush them to¬ 
gether to make paste. There were some who did not eat 
because they were so interested in watching the flies. Some, 
coughing, sprinkled a shower of rice all around. It looked 
like a poultry yard. However, it was a pretty sight; those 
two rows of little girls with their hair done up in a knot with 
red, blue or green ribbons. One of the teachers asked a line 
of eight little girls: ‘ ‘ Where does the rice grow ? ” 

All of them opened their mouths, filled with soup, and 
answered together, singing: “ It-is-born-in-the-water.” Then 
the teacher gave the order: “Raise your hands!” It was 
so nice to see those little arms fly up from children who a few 
months ago were in their swaddling clothes. All those little 
waving hands looked like butterflies, white and rosy. 

Then they went to the recreation room, but first they took 
from the wall their little baskets containing their breakfasts. 
As they came out into the garden, they scattered themselves 
around and began to take out their provisions—bread, stewed 
prunes, a small piece of cheese, a hard-boiled egg, some small 
apples, a handful of boiled vetch-peas or a chicken wing. In 
a moment the whole garden was covered with crumbs, as if they 


180 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


had spread food for a flock of birds there. They were eating 
in the strangest positions; like rabbits, mice and cats; nibbling, 
licking and sucking. One child had fastened some rice on his 
breast and was smearing it around with a medlar as though he 
were polishing a sword. Some little girls were crushing pieces 
of soft cheese in their hands, and it trickled through their 
fingers like milk and ran inside their sleeves without their 
noticing it. They were running around, following each other 
with apples and rolls in their teeth like dogs. I saw three who 
were excavating the inside of a hard egg with a little stick, 
thinking to find a treasure in there, and were scattering it 
around on the ground, then picking it up crumb by crumb 
with a great deal of patience, as if it were pearls. There was 
something singular about some of them. There were eight or 
ten bending their heads to look inside of a basket, as one would 
have looked at the moon inside of a cistern. There must have 
been about twenty standing around a midget about a span high, 
who held in his hand a little sugar bag, and they were all mak¬ 
ing bows to him in order to be allowed to dip their hand into 
it. He gave it to some, and to others, after being well begged, 
he only granted his finger to suck. 

By this time, my mother had come into the garden and was 
kissing first one and then another. Many of them would go 
to meet her or cling to her dress and ask her for a kiss with 
their upturned faces, opening and closing their mouths, like 
little birds asking for food. One offered her a quarter of an 
orange which had already been bitten; another a crust of bread; 
one little girl gave her a leaf, and another, in great earnest¬ 
ness,'showed her the point of her index finger, and, looking 
closely, one could see a microscopical swelling which she had 
gotten the day before by touching a lighted candle. They 
would place under her eyes some very small insects, so small 
that it was a mystery to me how they could see to pick them 
up. Some showed her half corks of bottles; some, shirt-but¬ 
tons; some, little flowers picked from the vases. A child with 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


181 


a bandaged head, wishing to be heard at any cost, stammered 
out a story, I could not comprehend what, about a tumble he 
had taken, but not a word could be understood. A girl 
wished my mother to bend down, and she whispered in her 
ear: “ My father makes brushes.” In the meantime, many 
accidents were happening, which forced the teachers to run 
here and there. Some of the girls cried because they could 
not undo the knot in their handkerchiefs; others disputed, with 
their nails and shouts, over two apple-seeds; a little boy who 
had fallen upon an upturned stool sobbed without being able 
to rise. 

When we were about to leave, my mother took three or 
four of them by the arm, and then others ran from all direc¬ 
tions to be taken up also, with their faces all smeared with the 
yolk of egg or with orang& juice. Some grasped her hands, 
•others got hold of her fingers to see her ring; one pulled her 
watch-chain, and another tried to pull her hair. 

‘ ‘ Look out, ’ ’ said one of the teachers, ‘ ‘ they will ruin your 
dress!” 

But my mother cared little for her dress and continued to 
kiss them, and they crowded around her more and more. The 
nearest ones had their arms stretched out as if they were try¬ 
ing to climb, and those more distant were trying to make their 
way through the crowd, and all were crying; 

‘ ‘ Good-bye! ” “ Good-bye! ” “ Good-bye! ” 

At last she succeeded in running away from them and went 
into the garden. Then they all ran and put their heads be¬ 
tween the iron bars of the railing to see her go by, throwing 
their arms out to salute her. They offered her pieces of 
bread, small pieces of fruit, and cheese rind, and all cried to¬ 
gether: 

‘‘Good-bye! Good-bye! Good-bye! Come back to-mor¬ 
row. Come again.” 

My mother in passing along put her hand upon those 
hundred little heads, as upon a garland of fresh roses. 


182 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


She finally reached the street safely, all covered with crumbs 
and spots, mussed up and disheveled; her hands filled with 
flowers and her eyes filled with tears, as happy as though she 
had come from a feast. We could still hear the voices inside, 
like a great twittering of birds, crying: 

“Good-bye! Good-bye! Come again, lady.” 


AT THE GYMNASIUM 

Wednesday the 5th. . 

The weather continuing fine, they made us go from the in¬ 
door gymnasium to the other in the garden, which is fitted up 
with apparatuses. 

Yesterday, Garrone was in the principal’s room when the 
mother of Nelli came — the blonde lady dressed in black — to 
have her boy excused from the exercises. She spoke with her 
hand upon Nelli’s head, and every word cost her an effort. 
“ He cannot do it,’’ she said to the principal. Nelli appeared 
to be very much grieved at being excused from the gymnasium; 
at having to suffer this humiliation. 

“You will see, mother, that I can do like the others,” he 
said. 

His mother looked at him in silence, with an air of pity and 
affection. Then she said with hesitation: “I fear that his 

companions”- She meant to say that they might ridicule 

him. 

But Nelli answered: “ It doesn’t matter, and then Garrone 
is there. I am satisfied if he is the only one who does not 
laugh.” 

And then they allowed him to join us. The teacher, the one 
who has a scar on his neck and who has been with Garibaldi, 
led us immediately to the vertical poles which are very high, 
and it was our task to climb to the top and stand upright on 
the transverse beam. Derossi and Corretti went up like two 




THE HEART OF A BOY 


183 


monkeys. Precossi also mounted quickly, although embar¬ 
rassed in that large jacket which reaches to his knees, and, in 
order to make him laugh while he was going up, they all 
repeated his interjection: “Excuse me, excuse me.” Stardi 
puffed up, growing red like a turkey, and closing his teeth so 
that he looked like a mad dog; but, even at the risk of burst¬ 
ing, he would have gone to the top, and he got there. When 
Nobis got to the top, he assumed the air of a conquering em¬ 
peror. Votini slid down twice in spite of his beautitul new 
suit with blue stripes, made expressly for gymnastics. 

In order to go up more easily they had all daubed their 
hands with colophony rosin, as it is called, which the traffick¬ 
ing Garoffi had sold to them for a soldo a bag, thereby making 
a profit. 

It was Garrone’s turn next and he went up, eating bread, 
with great ease; and I believe that he would have been able to 
carry one of us on his shoulder, he is so thick-set and strong, 
like a little ox. After Garrone, came Nelli. As soon as they 
saw him grasping the bar with his long thin hands many began 
to laugh and ridicule him, but Garrone crossed his arms on his 
breast and darted such an expressive glance at the boys that 
they well understood that he would immediately deal them 
blows, even in the presence of the teacher, and they all stopped 
laughing at once. 

Nelli commenced to climb with difficulty, poor thing. His 
face was scarlet, he was breathing hard, and the perspiration 
ran from his forehead. The teacher said: “Come down.” 
But he answered, “No,” making an effort and growing obsti¬ 
nate, while I was expecting every moment to see him tumble 
to the ground half dead. Poor Nelli! I was thinking if I 
had been like that, and my mother had seen me how she would 
have suffered, my poor mother; and thinking of this, I grew 
very fond of Nelli, and I would have given a great deal to 
have seen him succeed in ascending the bar, and to be able 
to push him from below without being seen. In the mean- 


184 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


while, Garrone, Derossi, and Coretti were saying: “ Up ! Up ! 
Nelli! Courage! Another effort! Up!” and Nelli made 
another violent effort, placing his elbow, and finding himself 
only two spans from the top. 

‘ ‘ Bravo ! 5 ’ cried the others. ‘ ‘ Courage ! Another push ! * ’ 
and behold Nelli grasped the transverse bar. All clapped their 
hands. 

“Bravo!” said the teacher, “but that is enough; come 
down now.” But Nelli wanted to go up on top like all the 
others, and after a little hesitation succeeded in placing his 
elbows upon the bar, then his knees, then his feet, until he sat 
up panting and smiling, and looked at us. 

We again clapped our hands. Then he looked in the street. 
I looked that way, and through the plants which covered the 
iron railings of the garden I saw his mother walking on the 
sidewalk, not daring to look up. Nelli came down and the 
boys all made much of him. He was excited and rosy, and 
his eyes were sparkling; he did not look like the same boy. 
His mother came to meet him when we came out, and embrac¬ 
ing him, she asked a little uneasily: 

‘ ‘ Well, my dear child, how did it go ? ’ All his compan¬ 
ions answered: 

“ He has done very well! He went up (ike the others! ” 
“ He is strong, do you know it?” “He is quick!” “He 
does just as well as the others.” 

It was a pleasure to see the joy of that woman! She tried 
to thank us, but she was not able. She .shook hands with 
three or four of us, caressed Garrone, and then took her boy 
away. 

We watched her for a. few moments as she walked along 
hurriedly, talking and gesticulating with Nelli, both more con 
tented than any one had ever seen them. 


the; heart of a boy 


185 


MY FATHER’S TEACHER 

Tuesday the nth. 

What a beautiful excursion I had yesterday with my father! 
This is how it happened. The day before yesterday, while we 
were at dinner, reading over a newspaper, my father gave vent 
to an exclamation of surprise. Then he said: “ And 1 thought 
him dead for the last twenty years! Do you know, he is still 
alive, my first teacher of the elementary school, Vincenzo 
Crosetti, who is now eighty-four years old? I see here that 
the ministry have bestowed upon him the medal of merit for 
having taught for the last sixty years. Sixty years , do you 
understand ? And it is only two years since he stopped teach¬ 
ing. Poor Crosetti! He lives only an hour’s ride from here 
by the railway, at Condovi, the place of our old garden woman 
of the villa of Chieri.” And he added: “ Enrico, we will go 
and see him.” 

Through the whole evening, he spoke of no one else but 
him. The name of his elementary teacher called to his mind 
a thousand things that happened when he was a boy. It 
reminded him of his first companions and of his dead mother. 
“ Crosetti! ” he exclaimed, “ was forty years old when I was 
with him. It seems to me that I can see him now; a little 
round-shouldered man, with clear eyes, and his face was al¬ 
ways clean shaven. Rather severe, but with good manners, 
and he always loved us as a father, and never forgave us any 
escapades. By dint of study and privations, he rose from being 
a farmer. He was an honest man. My father was pleased 
with him and treated him like a friend. Why he has gone 
from Turin to live at Condovi is more than I can guess! He 
surely will not recognize me. It matters not, I will recognize 
him. Forty-four years have passed! Forty-four years, Enrico, 
and to-morrow we will go and see him. * ’ 

Yesterday morning at nine o’clock we were at the railway 


186 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


station of Susa. I wanted to have Garrone go with us, but he 
could not on account of his mother being ill. It was a fine 
spring morning. The train ran through green meadows and 
blooming hedges, and the air was full of fragrance. My father 
was happy; and every once in awhile he put his arm around 
my neck, speaking to me as to a friend and looking out at the 
country. 

“Poor Crosetti! M he would say, “ he is the first man who 
liked me and who did me some good after my father. I have 
never forgotten some of his good advice, as well as some dry 
reproaches which sent me home with a lump in my throat. 
His hands were short and thick. I can still see him as he en¬ 
tered the school, placing his cane in the corner and hanginghis 
cloak on the hat-rack, always with the same gesture. He had 
an even temper, was always conscientious and full of good 
wishes, and so attentive that it seemed as though he were 
teaching every day for the first time. I remember as well as 
though I heard him now, when he looked at me and said: 
‘Bottini, eh! Bottini! hold the index and the middle finger 
upon thy pen! ’ He must have changed much in forty-four 
years. ’ ’ 

As soon as we reached Condovi, we went to look for our 
old garden woman of Chieri, who keeps a small shop in an 
alley. We found her with her boys and she gave us a hearty 
welcome, telling us the news of her husband who is about to 
return from Greece, where he has been working for the last 
three years. She also told us about her oldest daughter, who 
is now in the Deaf and Dumb Asylum at Turin. Then she 
showed us the way to go to find the teacher, who is known by 
every one. 

We left the place and went through a steep lane, flanked by 
blooming hedges. 

My father no longer talked; he seemed absorbed in his 
memories, and once in awhile he would smile and shake his 
head. 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


187 


Suddenly he stopped and said: “ Here he comes. I am 
willing to wager that it is he. ’ 5 

A little old man with a white beard was coming toward us. 
He wore a broad-brimmed hat, was walking with a stick, drag¬ 
ging his feet, and his hands were trembling. 

“ It is he ! ” repeated my father, hastening his step. 

When we came near him, we halted. The old man also 
stopped and looked at my father. He still had a fresh face, and 
his eyes were clear and had a lively expression. 

“Is it you ? ’ ’ asked my father, taking off his hat. ‘ ‘ The 
teacher, Vincenzo Crosetti? ” The old man also took off his 
hat and said: “ It is I,” with a tremulous but full voice. 

“ Well,” said my father, taking him by the hand, “ allow 
an old pupil of yours to shake your hand and ask you how you 
are. I have come from Turin to see you.” 

The old man looked at him in amazement, and then said: 

‘ ‘ You honor me too much- 1 do not know-When were 

you my pupil ? If you please. Tell me your name, 
I beg/’ 

My father gave him his name, Alberto Bottini, and told 
him the year that he had been in his school and where, adding : 
“You probably do not remember me, and it is quite natural, 
but I remember you very well ! ” 

The teacher bent his head and looked down, thinking, and 
he murmured two or three times the name of my father, who 
in the meanwhile gazed at him smiling. 

All of a sudden, the old man raised his face, with his eyes 
wide open and said slowly : ‘ ‘ Alberto Bottini, the son of the 

engineer Bottini ? The one who lived on Consolato square ? ’ ’ 

“ The same,” answered my father, holding his hand. 

“ Then,” said the old man, “ allow me, dear sir, allow me,” 
and coming forward he embraced my father, his head scarcely 
reaching his shoulder. My father laid his cheek upon his 
forehead. 

“ Have the kindness to come with me,” said the teacher. 




188 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


Without saying anything more, he turned and retraced his 
steps toward his house. In a few minutes, we entered the yard 
in front of a small house with two doors, one of which opened 
through a little white wall. 

The teacher opened the second dooi; and bade us enter. 
The room was white-washed; in one corner stood a cot-bed with 
a cover of white and blue squares; in another, a little table with 
a small bouquet upon it; there was an old geographical map 
nailed to the wall, and the room also contained four chairs ; and 
an odor of apples was perceptible. 

sat down. My father and the 
looked at each other for a few 

‘ ‘ Bottini! ’ ’ exclaimed the 
teacher, his eyes upon the 
brick floor, where the sun re¬ 
vealed a checker board. ‘ ‘ Oh, 
I remember well. Your moth¬ 
er was such a kind lady! Dur¬ 
ing the first year, you sat for 
a time on the first bench at the 
left near the window. See 
how well I remember ? I still 
see your curly hair. ’ ’ Then he 
paused a moment to think. 
“You were a pretty lively boy, eh? The second year, you were 
taken ill with the croup. I remember when they brought you 
back to school wrapped up in a shawl, and you were so emaci¬ 
ated. Forty years have passed since then, is it not so? You 
are so kind to remember your poor teacher ! Others have 
come, too, in the past years to see me here ; some of my old 
pupils: a colonel, .some priests, and several gentlemen.” 
He asked my father what profession he followed. Then he 
said : “I congratulate you, I congratulate you with all my 
heart. Thanks. It has been a long time since I had seen any 




K ft 1 

, > fijS ?c 

- r ^ 

V I 

























































































































































































































the: heart of a boy 


189 


of my old pupils and I fear that you may be the last one to 
visit me, dear sir. ” 

“Do not talk so,” said my father. “You are well and 
still strong. You must not say such things.” 

“No, no,” replied the teacher. “ Do you see this trembling!” 
and he showed his hands. ‘ ‘ This is a very bad sign. It came 
upon me three years ago while I was still teaching. At first, 
I paid no attention to it, thinking it would pass away. But 
instead it remained, or rather it kept on increasing. The day 
came when I was no longer able to write. Oh ! that day, the 
first time I made a blot upon the copy-book of one of my 
pupils, it was a blow to my heart, my dear sir. I went ahead 
for a little time, but I finally had to give up. After sixty 
years, I was obliged to say good bye to the school, to the pupils, 
to the work. And it was a hard thing, do you know, it was a 
hard thing. The last time I gave a lesson, they all escorted 
me home and made much of me, but I was sad, I felt that life 
had come to an end for me. The year previous I had lost my 
wife and my only child. Now I live upon a few hundred lire 
of pension. I work no more. My only occupation, as you see, 
is to look over my old school books, some collections of educa¬ 
tional journals, some books which my pupils have given me. 
There they are, ’ ’ he said, pointing to a little bookcase. ‘ ‘ There 
are the souvenirs of my past——It is all I have left in this 
world.” 

Then in a changed and jolly tone: “I want to surprise 
you, dear Signor Bottini.” 

He got up and approached a table, opened a long narrow 
drawer containing several little bundles, all bound together 
with a paste-board back, upon which was written a date in four 
figures. After searching for a moment, he opened one of them, 
turned over several papers and pulled out a sheet, grown yel¬ 
low with age, and handed it to my father. It was his lesson 
of forty years ago ! He read on the top of it: “Alberto Bot¬ 
tini, Dictation, April 3, 1838.” My father recognized at once 



190 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


his large hand writing when a boy and began to read, smiling; 
all of a sudden, tears came to his eyes. I got up and asked 
him what was the matter. 

He passed an arm around my waist, and pressing me to 
his side, he said : “ Eook at this sheet of paper. Do you see ? 
These are the corrections of my poor mother. She would 
always strengthen the I’s and the t’s. And the last lines are 
hers. She had learned to imitate my hand writing, and when 
I was tired or sleepy she would finish the work for me. My 
dear, sainted mother ! ” 

And he kissed that page. 

‘ ‘ Here they are, ’' said the teacher, showing other bundles, 

‘ ‘ here are my souvenirs. Every year, I put aside a piece of 
work of each of my pupils, and they are all put in their 
order by number. At times, I look them over and read a line 
here and there, and a thousand things come back to my mind, 
and it seems to me that I live in the past. How many have 
passed away, my dear sir ? If I close my eyes, I see faces over 
faces, class after class, and hundreds and hundreds of boys. 
Who knows how many of them are already dead. I remember 
some of them very well. I remember well the best and the 
worst, those who have given me much satisfaction, and those 
who caused me some sad moments, and I have had some who 
were serpents, do you know ? And a large number of them [ 
But now, you understand me, it seems as though I already 
belonged to the other world, and I love them all alike.” 

“And do you remember any roguish trick of mine ? ” asked 
my father, smiling. 

“You, sir?” replied the old man, also smiling, “not at 
this moment. But I do not mean to say that you never did 
anything wrong. Still, you were a boy who had judgment; 
you were serious for your age. I remember the great affection 

you had for your mother-And you have been good and kind 

to come and see me ! How could you leave your business to 
come and see a poor old teacher ? ” 



THE HEART OE A BOY 


191 


’* Listen, Signor Crosetti,'* replied my father quickly, “I 
recall the first time my poor mother accompanied me to 
school. It was the first time that she had ever been separated 
from me for two hours, or had left me outside of the house in 
any other hands than those of my father—in the hands of an 
unknown person. For that good creature, my entering school 
was like an entrance into the world, the first of a long series 
of necessary and painful separations. It was society which for 
the first time, was tearing from her her son who would never 
be to her quite the same as before. She was moved and so was 
I. She recommended me to you with a trembling voice, and 
when she went away, she saluted me from the door with her 
eyes filled with tears. At that moment, you made a gesture 
with your hand, placing the other one upon your breast as if to 
tell her: ‘Madam, trust in me.’ From that look and from 
that gesture, I perceived that you had understood all the 
thoughts, all the sentiments of my mother. That look which 
meant ‘ Courage ! ’ that gesture which was a solemn promise 
of protection, of affection, of indulgence—I have never forgot¬ 
ten it—It has ever since remained engraved upon my heart, 
and that remembrance is what caused me to leave Turin this 
morning, and here I am after forty years, to tell you : Thank 
you, dear teacher ! ” 

The teacher did not answer, he was caressing my hair with 
his trembling hand which glided from my hair upon my fore¬ 
head, and from my forehead upon my shoulder. 

During this time, my father looked at these bare walls, at 
that poor bed, at the piece of bread and the phial of oil upon 
the window, and it seemed as though he wished to say: “ Pool 
teacher, after sixty years of work, is this all your recoin- 
pense ? *’ 

The old man was contented, and again commenced to speak 
with vivacity of our family, of the other teachers, of those 
years, of my father’s school-mates, some of whom he remem¬ 
bered, and others whom he did not, and each gave the other 


192 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


news of them. At last, my father interrupted the conversation 
by begging the teacher to come down to the village and have 
luncheon with us. He ceremoniously replied : ‘* Thank you, 

thank you.” But he seemed to be uncertain about it. My 
father took both his hands and begged him again. “ How can 
I eat, ’ ’ said the teacher, ‘ ‘ with these poor hands which tremble 
so; it would be a punishment to the others ! ” “We will help 
you,” said my father. Then he accepted, shaking his head 
and smiling. 

“It is a fine morning,” he said closing the outside-door, 
“ it is a fine morning, dear Signor Bottini ! I assure you that 
I shall keep it in mind as long as I live. ’ ’ 

My father took the teacher by the arm, the old man took my 
hand, and we descended the lane. We met two little bare-footed 
girls leading some cows, and a boy passed us running with a 
large load of straw on his shoulders. The teacher told us that 
they were pupils of the second class, who during the morning 
would lead the cattle to pasture or work in the fields, bare¬ 
footed, and in the evening would put on their shoes and go 
to school. It was almost noon and we met no one else. We 
reached the hotel in a few minutes. We seated ourselves at a 
table, putting the teacher between us, and immediately ordered 
our luncheon. The hotel was as quiet as a convent. The teacher 
was very jolly, and as his excitement increased, he trembled so 
that he could hardly eat; but my father cut his meat, broke his 
bread and put salt upon his plate. In order to drink he was 
obliged to hold the glass with both hands, and even then he 
shook so that the glass would click against his teeth. He 
talked constantly, with warmth, about the reading books when 
he was a youth, about the schools of those years, about the 
praises which his superior had bestowed upon him, and about the 
regulations of the last years; all the time with that serene face 
a little redder than before, in that gay voice, and he laughed 
almost like a young man. My father looked and looked at 
him, with the same expression with which, at times, I sur- 


THE HEART OP A BOY 


193 


prise 1 him looking at me at home, when he thinks and smiles 
to himself with his face leaning to one side. The teacher let 
some wine trickle upon his breast; my father got up and 
cleaned it off with a napkin. “ No, no, I will not allow you, *’ 
he said, and laughed. He would speak some words in Latin. 
Finally, raising his glass, which danced in his hands, he said 
very seriously : “To your health, my dear engineer, to your 
children, and to the memory of your good mother! ” “To 
your health, my good teacher ! ” answered my father, pressing 
his hand. The landlord and some others who were at the 
other end of the room looked at us and smiled as though they 
were pleaded with the celebration which was granted to the 
teacher of their place. 

The teacher wished to accompany us to the station when 
we left, at two o’clock. My father again gave him his arm and 
he took me by the hand, while I carried his cane. The people 
all stopped to look at us as we passed; all knew him, and some 
saluted him. At one place on the road, we heard from a win¬ 
dow several boys’ voices reading together and spelling aloud. 
The teacher stopped and seemed to grow sad. 

“ That—dear Signor Bottini,” he said, “ that is what pains 
me: to hear the voices of the boys at school, and to think 
that I can no longer be among them, while some one else is 
there. I have heard this music for the last sixty years, and I 

have grown to love it-Now I am without a family, I no 

longer have children.” 

“No, teacher,” said my father, resuming the way, “you 
still have many children scattered all over the world, who 
remember you as I do.” 

“No, no,” replied the teacher, sadly, “I no longer have 
any children, and without children I cannot live much longer. 
My hour will soon strike.” 

“Do not say so, teacher; do not think it,” said my father. 

“ At any rate, you have done much good! You have lived 
your life nobly.” 



194 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


For a moment the old teacher inclined his head towards my 
father and shook my hand. 

We had just entered the station, the train was about to 
leave. 

“Good-bye, teacher," said my father, kissing him on both 
cheeks. 

“Good-bye, thanks, good-bye," answered the teacher, taking 
one of my father’s hands in his and pressing it upon his heart. 

I kissed him also and felt that his face was wet. My father 
pushed me inside the car. Then taking, with a quick move¬ 
ment, the rough cane from the teacher’s hand and putting in 
its stead his own beautiful one with a silver handle which had 
his initials upon it, he exclaimed: “Do keep it in remem¬ 
brance of me ! ’ ’ The old teacher tried to return it to him and 
take back his own, but my father entered the car and closed 
the door. 

‘ ‘ Good-bye, my good teacher. ’ ’ 

“Good-bye, my child,” answered*the teacher, while the 
train was moving, ‘ ‘ and may the Lord bless you for the con¬ 
solation which you have brought to a poor old man. ’ ’ 

“Until we meet again,” cried my father, his voice filled 
with emotion. 

But the teacher shook his head, as if saying : “We shall 
never meet again.” 

“Yes, yes," repeated my father, “until we meet again.” 

The old man raised his trembling hand toward the skies 
and answered : “ There above ! ’ ’ 


CONVALESCENCE 

Thursday the 20th. 

Who would have thought when I was returning so merry 
and happy from that lovely excursion with my father that for 
ten days I would see neither the country nor the sky! 1 have 



the heart of a boy 


195 


been dangerously ill. I have heard my mother sobbing; I 
have seen my father very, very pale, gazing at me fixedly; and 
my sister Silvia and my brother talking softly. The doctor, 
with his eye-glasses, was there every moment, saying things 
which I could not understand. I have, indeed, been on the 
point of saying good-bye to all. Ah, my poor mother! There 
are at least two or three days of which I remember scarcely 
anything, and it seems as though I had a dark and perplexing 
dream. It seemed that I had seen next to my bed my good 
teacher of the first superior, who was trying to stifle her cough 



orange with the leaves on the stem, and ran away imme¬ 
diately because his mother was ill. Then I woke up, 
feeling as though I had been having a long dream. I 
knew that I was better because my mother smiled and I 
could hear Silvia singing softly. Oh, what a sad dream I 
had ! After that, I improved every day. The Tittle Mason 
came and made me laugh for the first time since my illness by 
making his hare face, and how well he does it now that his face 
is a little elongated, owing to his sickness, poor boy! Coretti 
came to see me; also Garoffi, who presented me with two 
tickets to the new raffle for a pen-knife with five blades which 







196 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


he bought from a second-hand dealer in via Bartola. Yester¬ 
day, while I was sleeping, Precossi came and placed his cheek 
upon my hand without waking me, and, as he came from his 
father's workshop with his face covered with charcoal dust, he 
left a black mark upon my sleeve. I found pleasure in seeing 
it when I awoke. How green the trees have become in a few 
days! and how I envy the boys whom I see running to school 
with their books, when my father takes me to the window. In 
a short time, I shall also return to school; I am so impatient to 
see all the boys again, and my desk, the garden, the streets, 
and to know all that has happened in this time; I wish once 
more to occupy myself with my books and copy-books, which 
it seems to me a year since I have seen. Poor mother! how 
pale she has grown. My poor father, how tired he looks. 
And when my schoolmates come to see me, they walk on tip¬ 
toe and kiss me on the forehead. It makes me feel bad to 
think that some day we shall separate. Perhaps, I shall con¬ 
tinue to study with Derossi and some of the other boys, but 
how is it about the balance of them ? When I get through the 
fourth elementary, it will be a good-bye to all; we shall not see 
each other again. They will no longer come to my bedside 
when I am ill. Garrone, Precossi, Coretti—so many fine boys! 
Such good and kind companions! Never again! 


THE FRIEND OF THE WORKMAN 

Tuesday the 20th . 

Why ‘ ‘ never again,' ’ Enrico f That will depend upon thy¬ 
self. When thou art through the fourth elementary, thou wilt go 
to the high school and those companions will go to work ; but thou 
wilt remain in the same city perhaps for many years to come. 

Why then wilt thou not see one another again f When thou wilt 
be at the university or at college , thou wilt seek them in their shops 
and in their stores , and it will be a great pleasure to thee to find 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


197 


once more the companions of thy childhood who have become men at 
wo? k. I should be displeased to know that thou didst no longer go 
to see Coretti and Precossi, no matter where they were . Thou wilt 
go and spend hours in their company; and thou wilt see, while 
studying human life and the world, how many things thou wilt 
be able to learn from them that no one else will be able to teach 
thee about their own trades, theirfamilies, as well as much about 
thy comitry. Be careful, if thou dost not keep those friendships, 
it will be hard fo? thee; if thou shouldst not acquaint thyself with 
similar persons in the future — I mean other friendships outside 
the class to which thou belong est, and only live among a separate 
class. The man who acquaints himself with but a single social 
class is like the student who reads a single book. Do purpose from 
this time on to keep these good friends even after separating, and 
cultivate their friendship in preference to that of others, because 
they are sons of workmen. The me?i of the upper class a?e the 
officers and the workmen are the soldiers of work. Thus in society 
as well as in the a? my, the soldier is not less noble than the officer , 
as nobility lies in the merit and not in the profit; it depends upon 
the valor and not upon the ra?ik. But, if there is a superiority 
of merit it belongs to the soldier, to the workman, who draws from 
his own work a mine of profit. Love and respect those among thy 
companions who are .the sons of the soldiers of labor. Honor in 
them the struggles and sacrifices of their parents. Despise the 
difference of fortune and of rank, upon which only the base regu¬ 
late their sentiments and courtesies. Reflect that the blessed blood 
which redeemed thy cou?itry came almost entirely from the working 
class; from the shops and fro?n the fields. Love Garrone, love 
Precossi, love Coretti, love the Little Mason; for in their small 
breasts are shrined the hearts of princes ; and swear to thyself that 
no change of fortune will ever alieniate thee from those blessed 
juvenile friendships of thy soul. Promise thyself that , if in forty 
years fro?n now, thou shouldst pass through a railway statio?i and 
shouldst recognize in the garments of a railway engineer with a 
black face thy old friend Garrone - Ah, it is not necessary that 



198 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


thou shouldstpromise it; I am certain that thou wouldstjump on 
the engine and throw thy arms around his neck , even if thou wert 
a Senator of the Kingdom. 

Thy Father. 


GARRONE’S MOTHER 

Saturday the 29th. 

The first thing I heard when I returned to school was sad 
news. Garrone did not come to school for many days because 
his mother was seriously ill. She died last Saturday. Yes¬ 
terday morning, as soon as we entered the school, the teacher 
said to us: 

‘ ‘ A great misfortune has happened to poor Garrone— 
the greatest misfortune that can befall a child; his mother 
is dead. He will come back to the class to-morrow. I beg 
you all to respect the terrible sorrow which wrings his soul. 
When he comes in, greet him with affection, but in a grave 
manner. Let no one jest; let no one laugh at him, I beg of 
3 t ou.” 

Garrone came in this morning a little later than the others. 
My heart sank when I saw him. He looked haggard; his 
eyes were red, and he could hardly stand. It seemed as 
though he had been ill. He was all dressed in black, and one 
could scarcely recognize him; it was a pitiful sight. All 
looked at him breathlessly. As soon as he entered the room 
and saw the place where his mother had waited for him nearly 
every day, and that bench where she had so often bent down 
on the days of examination to give him the last word of en¬ 
couragement, and where he had so many times thought of 
her, while impatient to get out and run to meet her, he 
could not restrain himself from weeping. The teacher drew 
the boy to him and pressed him to his breast, saying: 

“ Weep, poor boy, but have courage. Your mother is no 
longer here below, but she sees you; she still loves you; she 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


199 


still lives beside you, and some day you will see her again; 
because you are good and honest like her. Have courage ! ” 

Having said this, he escorted him to his bench near me. I 
did not dare to look at him. He pulled out his books, which 
he haa not opened for several days, opening his reader where 
there was an engraving representing a mother holding her 
child by the hand. He burst into tears again and laid his head 
upon his arm. The teacher made us a sign to let him alone, 
and commenced the lesson. I wished to give him something, 
but did not know what. I put my hand on his arm and whis¬ 
pered in his ear: 

“ Do not weep, Garrone.” 

He made no reply, but without raising his head from the 
desk, he put his hand in mine and held it there for some time. 
Coming out, no one spoke to him; they all passed him by with 
respect and in silence. I saw my mother waiting for me, and 
ran to embrace her, but, looking at Garrone, she rebuked me. 
I did not immediately understand the reason, but I noticed 
that Garrone, who was standing a little to one side, was look¬ 
ing at me, gazing with a look of inexpressible sadness, as if he 
meant to say: 

“ You embrace your mother, and I cannot embrace mine 
any more. You still have your mother; mine is dead.” 

Then I understood why my mother had rebuked me, and I 
walked beside her without putting my hand in hers. 


GIUSEPPE MAZZINI 

Saturday the 2<?th. 

Garrone, pale and with eyes swollen from weeping, came to 
school again this morning. He scarcely glanced at the small 
presents which we had put upon his desk to console him. The 
teacher had brought a page of a book to read to him to give him 
courage. First, he notified us that at one o’clock to-morrow 


200 


THE HEART OF A EOY 


we should go to the City Hall to witness the awarding of a 
medal of civic valor to a boy who had saved a little child from 
the river Po, and Monday he would dictate the description of 
the celebration in the place of the monthly story. Then, turn¬ 
ing to Garrone, who kept his head down, he said to him: 

‘‘ Garrone, make an effort and write what I am about to 
dictate.” We all took our pens and the teacher commenced 
the dictation. 

‘ ‘Giuseppe Mazzini, who was born in Genoa in 1805, and 
died in Pisa in 1872, was a great patriotic soul. He had the 
mind and inspiration of a great writer. He 
j,jf was the first apostle of the Italian Revolution. 

For the love of his country, he lived for forty 





!f\ ffj at. 

mother, and 


years in poverty; an exile, perse¬ 
cuted; a fugitive, heroically stead¬ 
fast in his purpose and in his reso¬ 
lutions. Giuseppe Mazzini, who 
who had derived from her all 


adored his 

that which in her strong and kind soul was noblest and 
purest, wrote in this way to a faithful friend to console 
him upon the greatest of misfortunes. These are his words: 
‘ My friend, you will never behold your mother again upon this 
earth. This is a tremendous truth. I do not come to see you 
because your sorrow is one of those holy and solemn sorrows 
that one must suffer and conquer alone. Do you understand 
what I mean by these words, ‘ You must conquer your sorrow ?’ 
Conquer that which is least holy in the sorrow, least purifying, 
annihilate that which, instead of bettering the soul, weakens it? 






THE HEART OF A BOY 


201 


But the other side of sorrow, the most noble side, the one 
which absorbs and elevates the soul, that one must remain with 
you and never leave you.’ Nothing takes the place of a good 
mother here below. In sorrows, in consolations, that life will 
still crown you; you will never forget her. You must remem¬ 
ber her, love her, mourn her death in a manner worthy of her. 
Oh, friend, listen to me. Death does not exist; it is nothing. 
One cannot even understand it. Life is life, and follows the 
laws of life: it is progress. Yesterday, you had a mother upon 
earth; to-day, you have an angel somewhere else. All that 
is good survives, increasing in power through our earthly life. 
It is so with the love of your mother. She loves you now more 
than ever. Ana you are more responsible for your actions now 
in her eyes than you were before. It depends upon your deeds 
whether you meet her again, whether you see her in another 
existence. For the love and reverence due your mother, you 
must become better and cause her joy. Because of this, you 
must from now henceforth, at every act, say to yourself: Would 
my mother approve of it? Her transformation has placed near 
you a guardian angel to whom you must refer everything that 
you do. Be strong and good. Fight this unhealthy and des¬ 
perate sorrow. Have the tranquility of great souls in great 
sufferings: that is what she wishes.” 

“Garrone,” added the teacher, “ be strong and peaceful , 
that is what your mother wishes. Do you understand ? ’ ’ 
Garrone made a sign of assent with his head, while flowing 
tears fell upon his hands, upon his book, and upon his desk. 

CIVIC VAEOR 

(MONTHLY STORY) 

At one o’clock, we found ourselves with our teacher in front 
of the City Hall to witness the awarding of the medal of civic 
valor to the boy who has rescued his companion from the 
River Po. 


202 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


Upon the balcony on the facade of the building was a 
large tricolored flag. We entered the court-yard of the 
palace. 

It was already crowded with people. We could see at 
the end a table with a red cover and some papers laying 
upon it. Behind this there was a row of large gilded chairs 
for the mayor and the council. The ushers of the munici¬ 
pality, with blue waistcoats and white stockings, were there. 
A detachment of civic guards, wearing many medals on their 
breasts, were standing on the right side of the court-yard; 
next to them, a detachment of customhouse officers; and on 
the other side, the firemen, in full dress uniform; and there 
were many soldiers scattered around, who had come to look on: 
cavalry soldiers, bersaglieri, and artillery men. Among these, 
some gentlemen, some working men, ’ some army officers, 
women and boys, who were crowding around. We were 
pressed into a corner, where there had already gathered many 
pupils of the other schools with their teachers, and near us 
there v»as a group of country boys, between ten and 
eighteen years of age, who were laughing and talking in a 
loud manner, and we understood that they all belonged to the 
Borgo Po, class-mates or acquaintances of the one who was to 
receive the medal. The employees of the City Hall could be 
seen leaning out of the windows, and the loggia of the library 
was also crowded with people, pressing against the iron rail¬ 
ings. In the one on the opposite side, which is over the en¬ 
trance door, stood a number of girls of the public schools, 
many Daughters of Soldiers , with their pretty blue veils. It 
seemed as though we were in a theatre. They all talked, 
merely looking from time to time toward the red table to 
see if any one was appearing. The band was playing at the 
end of the portico. The sun shone upon the walls. It was a 
beautiful sight. 

Suddenly they all began to clap their hands, in the court¬ 
yard, in the loggia, and the windows. 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


203 


I stood on tip-toe to see. 

The throng which was behind the red table had made 
an opening and a man and woman had come through. The 
man held a boy by the hand. It was the one who had rescued 
his companion. 

The man was his father, a mason, in Sunday clothes; the 
woman his mother, a little blonde wearing a black dress. The 
boy was small and also blonde, and he wore a grey jacket. 
Seeing all those people, and hearing all that thunder of ap¬ 
plause, all three stood there not daring to look or move. An 
usher of the municipality pushed them next to the table into 
the light. 

All were silent for a moment. Then the applause broke 
forth again from every side. The boy looked at the windows 
and then at the loggia where the Daughters of the Soldiers 
stood—holding his cap in his hands, looking as though he did 
not know where he was. It seemed to me that he looked a 
little like Coretti, although his face was somewhat redder. His 
father and mother kept their eyes fixed upon the table. 

In the meantime, the boys of Borgo Po, who had come near 
us, were pushing themselves ahead and making gestures toward 
their companion, in order to be noticed by him, and calling him 
in a low voice: “Pin! Pin! Pinot!” By persevering in calling 
him, they attracted his attention. The boy looked at them and 
hid a smile behind his cap. 

Finally all the guards placed themselves in the position of 
“ attention.” 

The mayor entered, accompanied by many gentlemen. 

He had a white beard and wore a large tricolored sash 
around his waist. He went to the table and stood there, and 
the others placed themselves on the side and behind him. The 
band ceased to play, the mayor made a gesture and all were 
silent. 

He began to speak. I could not understand the first words 
very well, but I knew that he was telling about the deed of 


204 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


the boy. Then his voice began to grow louder and sounded 
clear and sonorous through the whole court, so that I could not 
miss a word. “-When, from the shore, he saw his com¬ 

panion struggling in the river, already overtaken by the terror 
of death, he tore his clothes from his back and ran without 
hesitating for a moment. They cried to him: ‘You will 
drown yourself!’ He did not answer. They grasped him, 
but he freed himself; they called him, but he was already in 
the water. The river was swollen and the risk very great even 
for a man. But he flung himself against death with all the 
power of his little body and his great heart. He overtook and 
got hold of the unfortunate boy just in time; he was already 
under the water, but he drew him to the surface and fought 
furiously with the waves which were about to overwhelm him 
with his companion, who was clinging to him; he disappeared 
many times but came up again with a desperate effort, obsti¬ 
nate, invincible in his noble purpose. Not like a boy who 
wishes to save another boy, but like a man, like a father who 
fights to save his son who is his hope and his life. God did 
not allow such a generous deed to be fruitless. The swimming 
child wrested his friend from the giant river and brought him 
safely to land, and with the others gave him the first comforts. 
After that, he returned home alone quietly, to tell ingenuously 
of his deed. 

“ Gentlemen, the heroism of man is beautiful and worthy 
of veneration; but that of a child, in whom no aim of ambition 
or other interests may be possible, in a child who must have 
the more hardihood in proportion to his strength; in a child, 
from whom we ask nothing, who is considered nothing, who 
seems to be so noble and amiable, not only when he accom¬ 
plishes what he undertakes but also when he recognizes the 
sacrifices of others. Heroism in a child is divine ! I will say 
nothing more, gentlemen. I do not wish to cover such simple 
grandeur with superfluous praises. Behold before you the noble 
and valorous rescuer. Soldiers, salute him like a brother; 




0 





































































































































































THE HEART OF A BOY 


205 


mothers, bless him as a son; children, remember his name, 
impress upon your mind his face, that he may never be erased 
from your memory and from your heart. Approach, boy. In 
the name of the King of Italy, I bestow upon you the medal 
of civic valor. ’ * 

A rousing hurrah, in a chorus of many voices, echoed 
through the palace. 'The mayor took the medal from the table 
and fastened it on the breast of the boy. Then he embraced 
and kissed him. 

His mother placed a hand over her eyes and his father hung 
his head before such honor. 

The mayor shook hands with both of them and taking the 
decree of decoration, bound with a ribbon, he gave it to the 
woman. 

Then he turned to the boy and said: “ May the remem¬ 
brance of this day, so glorious for you, so joyful for your 
father and mother, maintain you through all your life on the 
road of virtue and honor. Good bye !” 

The mayor went out. The band commenced to play, and 
everything seemed to be over, when a squad of firemen made 
their way in, and a child of eight or ten years, pushed ahead by 
a woman, ran toward the boy wearing the medal and fell into 
his arms. 

Another crash of applause and hurrahs rang through the 
court-yard. All immediately understood that he was the boy 
who had been rescued from the Po, and had come to thank 
his rescuer. After having kissed him, he took his arm to es¬ 
cort him out. They were at the head of the line; next came 
the father and mother. It was difficult for them to make their 
way through the crowd, which, forming a line composed of 
guards, soldiers, boys and women, all mingled together. They 
all pushed ahead, standing on tip-toe to see the boy. Thou¬ 
sands who stood in his way touched his hand. When he 
passed in front of the school boys, they all waved their caps 
in the air. The boys of Borgo Po made a big uproar, pulling 


206 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


him by his arms and by his jacket and exclaiming: “ Pin ! 
Huriah for Pm! Bravo , Pinot! ” 

He passed very near me; his face was all aflame. He 
was very happy, with his medal hanging on a red, white and 
green ribbon. His mother was weeping and laughing, and 
his father was twisting his moustache with his hand. He 
trembled as if he had a fever. They were still applauding 
from the windows, from the balconies, and from the loggia. 

As they were about to pass under the portico, the Daugh¬ 
ters of the Soldiers suddenly threw down a shower of pansies, 
violets and daisies, which fell upon the head of the boy, of the 
father, of the mother, and were scattered on the ground. Some 
of the crowd began to pick them up hurriedly, in order to pre¬ 
sent them to the mother. In the meanwhile the band at the 
end of the court was playing a very soft and beautiful tune 
which seemed like a song of many silvery voices fading away 
along the banks of a river. 


MAY 

THE CHILDREN WITH THE RICKETS 

Thursday the yth. 

I took a vacation to-day, because I was not feeling well, 
and my mother permitted me to go with her to the asylum for 
children afflicted with the rickets, where she went to recom¬ 
mend a child of our janitor, but she did not allow me to enter 
the school. 

Dost thou not understand , Enrico , why I did not allow thee to 
enter f I did not wish to place in front of these unfortunates , 
there in the middle of the school , almost as a show , a healthy and 
robust boy. They have too many occasions to make sorrowful com¬ 
parisons. What a sad thing ! Tears came from my heart when 





- • iwif 











































THE HEART OF A BOY 


207 


/ entered that room. I saw about sixty boys and girls - Poor 

tortured bones ! Poor hands ! Poor little shriveled and distorted 
feet! Pool deformed bodies ! I immediately observed some pretty 
faces, some eyes full of intelligence and affection ; there was a little 
girl having a face with a pointed nose and chin, who looked like a 
little old woman, but she had a sweet and celestial smile . Some of 
them looked quite pretty in their faces and without defects, but 
when they turned around, how different! A weight fell upon 
one's soul. The physician was theie visiting them. He stood them 
upon the benches and lifted their little dresses, touching the swollen 
stomachs and the enlaiged joints, but they did not seem at all bash¬ 
ful, poor creatures ! One could see that they were accustomed to be 
undressed, examined and turned around to be seen from every 
side; and to think that they are now in the best stage of their 
disease and they do not suffer much any more! What must they 
not have suffered when their bodies began to be deformed, when, 
with the growing of their deformity, they saw the affection of then 
companions diminishing toward them! Poor children! Left alone 
for hours in the corner of a room, or in the court-yard, badly fed, 
and at times even scoffed at. Some of them tormented for months 
with bandages and orthopedic apparatuses! Now, however, thanks 
to care and good food and gymnastics, many improve. The 
teacher made them go through some gymnastic exercises. It was 
a pitiful sight, at certain commands, to see them stretch from 
under the benches all those bandaged limbs squeezed between 
splints, knotty and deformed — those limbs that should have been 
covered with kisses! Several of them were not able to rise from 
the bench and sat there with their heads bent down upon their 
arms, caressing their crutches with their hands, others making a 
thrust with their arms would lose their breath and fall down upon 
the bench and sit there pale but smiling in order to conceal 
their sorrow. Ah, Enrico! You other boys do not appreciate 
health, thinking it is so small a thing to be well! I was thinking 
of the beautiful, strong and thriving boys that their mothers carry 
around in triumph, proud of their beauty, and Ifelt as if I wanted 



208 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


to take all those poor little heads and press them upon my heart in 
despair; and say : “ Were I alone in the world, I would never 

move from here, I would consecrate my life to you, wait upon you, 

act as a mother to you until my last day ”- They sang with 

such thin, sweet and mournful voices that the music touched my 
soul, and when the teacher praised them , they appeared to he so 
glad. While she was passing between the benches, they would 
kiss her hands and arms as though they felt much gratitude to 
those who labored for their benefit. They are very affectionate. 
Some also have talent—those little angels—and the teacher told 
me that they study well. This young teacher had a kind face, 
but with a certain expression of sadness like the reflection of the 
misfortunes which she consoles and caresses. Dear girl! Among 
all the creatures who earn their living by toil, there is not one 
who earns it in a more holy way than you, sainted creature ! 

Thy Mother . 


SACRIFICE 

Tuesday the 9 th. 

My mother is good and my sister Silvia is exactly like her, 
she has the same kind and gentle heart. Last night I was 
copying a part of the monthly story, ‘ *From the Appennines to the 
Andes," of which the teacher has given us each a portion to 
copy, because it is so very long, when my sister Silvia entered 
on tip-toe and told me softly, speaking in an anxious tone : 
“ Come with me to mamma. I heard some one talking this 
morning. Some of papa’s business has turned out bad. He 
was sad and mamma was trying to encourage him. We are 
in stringent circumstances, do you understand ? There is no 
more money. Papa said it would be necessary to make some 
sacrifices in order to meet our loss. Now it is essential 
that we two also make some sacrifices, do you not think so ? 
Are you not ready? Well then, when I speak to mamma, you 




THE HEART OF A BOY 


209 


must nod assent and promise upon your honor, that you will do 


all that I am about to tell her.” 

After saying this, she took me by the hand and led me 
to our mother, who was sewing, all wrapped up in her 
thoughts. I sat down on one side of the sofa and Silvia on 
the other, and she immediately said : 

“ Mamma, listen, I wish to speak to you. We both wish 
to speak to you.” Mother looked at us in astonishment. 

Silvia then began : 4 ‘ Is it not true that papa is without 



money ? ” 

“What do you mean?” asked 
my mother, blushing. ‘ ‘ No, it is 
not true. What do you know about 
it ? Who has told you this ? ’ ’ 

“I know it,” said 
Silvia resolutely. 

“ Listen, mamma, we 
must make some sac¬ 
rifices too. You had promised me a fan 
for the end of May, and Ernico was ex¬ 
pecting his paint box. We no longer 
want them; we do not want any soldi to 
be wasted; we shall be just as well satis¬ 
fied without. Do you understand?” 
Mother tried to speak, but Silvia con¬ 
tinued : “No, it must be so. We have 
come to this conclusion. As long as 
papa does not have money, we do not want any dessert or other 
fine things, we will be satisfied with soup alone; and we will only 
eat bread for breakfast in the morning. This will reduce the 
expense for the table, as we spend more than is necessary now. 
Besides we promise you that you shall see us just as contented 

as before. Is it not so, Enrico? 

I answered, yes. ‘ 4 Always as contented as before, * ’ repeated 
Silvia, closing mamma’s mouth with her hand, and if there 







210 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


are any other sacrifices to make, either in dress or anything 
else, we shall be glad to do so. We are ready to sell our 
presents; I would give everything I have, I will wait upon you 
like a maid, we shall not have anything ordered out of the 
house, and I will work with you the whole day, I will do 
everything you wish, I am disposed to do everything ! To do 
everything ! ” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around 
mother’s neck, “provided that papa and mamma may never 
experience any sorrow, in order that I may see you both calm 
and in good spirits as you were before, with your Silvia and your 
Enrico, who love you so much, and who would give their 
lives for you ! ’ ■ 

I had never seen my mother so happy as when she heard 
those words. She never kissed us on the brow in that way 
before, weeping and laughing and unable to speak. After 
awhile, she assured Silvia that she had misunderstood the situ¬ 
ation, that we were not in such reduced circumstances as she 
thought; luckily for us, we were not destitute. She thanked us 
hundreds of times, and was cheerful all the evening, and when 
my father came home she told him everything. He did not 
open his mouth, my poor father ! But this morning, when I was 
taking my seat at the table, I experienced a great pleasure min¬ 
gled with some sadness. I found my box of paints under my 
nankin, and Silvia found her fan. 


THE FIRE * 

Thursday the nth. 

I had just finished copying my portion of the story, “ From 
the Appennines to the Andes," this morning, and was trying to 
find a theme for my individual composition, which our teacher 
asked us to write, when I heard an unusual sound of voices on 
the stairs and soon after two firemen entered our apartment, 


* This happened the night of January 27th, 1880. 
































THE HEART OF A BOY 


211 


who asked my father’s permission to inspect the stoves and the 
chimneys, as a smoke-pipe was on fire upon the roof, and they 
did not know which one it was. My father told them to go 
ahead, and, although we had no fire lighted anywhere in our 
apartment, they went around from room to room, laying 
their ear against the walls to hear if a fire was roaring inside 
of the flues which run from the other stories of the house. 

While they were going through the other rooms, my father 
said to me: “ Enrico, here is a theme for your composition, 

‘ The Firemen. ’ Listen to me and write it down. I saw them 
at work one evening two years ago, when I came out of the 
Balbo theatre late at night. Going through the via Roma, I 
saw an unusual light and a crowd of people were running; a 
house was on fire. Tongues of flame and clouds of smoke 
were bursting from the windows and from the roof. Men and 
women appeared on the window sills and disappeared, uttering 
despairing cries. There was a great noise in front of the door 
of the house, and the crowd shouted: “ They are burning 
alive! Help! Help! The firemen!” At that moment a 
wagon arrived and four firemen sprang out of it. They were 
the first ones to arrive and they rushed inside the house. 
Hardly had they entered when a horrible sight was witnessed. 
A woman peeped from a third story window, shouting and 
clutching at the railing, climbed over it and remained sus¬ 
pended in that way, almost in space, with her back turned, 
bending under the smoke and flames which were creeping from 
room to room and leaped almost to her head. The crowd 
uttered a cry of horror. The firemen, who had by mistake 
been stopped at the second floor by the horrified lodgers, had 
already made an opening through the wall, and rushed into a 
room, when a hundred cries from below told them: 

“ ‘Up to the third story! ’ ” 

“ They flew to the third story. A terrible destruction was 
going on there; wooden beams were falling; the corridors were 
filled with flames and a stifling smoke. The only way that 


212 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


remained by which to reach these lodgers was to pass over the 
roof. They rushed up immediately, and a minute after, a man 
was seen like a black phantom going over the tile roof in the 
midst of fire and smoke; it was the corporal of the firemen, 
who was the first to reach the side of the roof which corre¬ 
sponded to the suite of rooms cut off by the fire. 

“ In order to reach this point, it was necessary to go over an 
extremely narrow place between the dormer window and the 
eaves. All the remainder of the house was in flames and that 
little space was covered with snow and ice and there was not 
a projection one could grasp with the hand. 

“ ‘ It is impossible for him to go through there! ’ said the 
crowd below. 

<r The corporal came out on the edge of the roof; every one 
shuddered and stood looking, with suspended breath; he passed 
over; an immense hurrah arose to the sky. The corporal 
pushed further ahead, and having reached the threatened 
point, began with furious blows of his hatchet to split the 
beams, shingles and tiles in order to make an opening by 
which he could enter the room below. All this time the wo¬ 
man remained suspended outside the window; the fire was rag¬ 
ing above her head; one moment more and she would have 
fallen into the street. 

‘ ‘The opening was made, the corporal was seen taking off his 
shoulder belt and sliding down; the other firemen having arrived 
followed him. At the same moment, a very tall patent ladder, 
which had just been brought, was placed on the entablature of 
the house in front of the windows from which the flames and 
maddening cries were issuing. But every one thought it was 
too late. 

‘ “ No one can be saved ! ’ they were crying. ‘ The fire¬ 
men will be burned to death ! ’ ‘ It is all over [ ’ “ They 

are dead ! ’ Suddenly the black figure of the corporal, illu¬ 
minated by the flames overhead, appeared at the window over 
the balcony. The woman clasped her arms around his neck; 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


213 


he caught her by the waist with both arms and pulled her up 
and laid her inside the room. The crowd gave vent to a shout 
of a thousand voices which deafened the uproar of the fire. 

“ ‘ But how about the others? How can they get down.’ 
The ladder was leaning on the roof in front of another window, 
but a wide space intervened between them. 

‘ ‘ ‘ How will they be able to reach it ? ’ 

“While the crowd were saying this, one of the firemen came 
out of the window, thrust his right foot upon the window sill 
and the left upon the ladder, and standing thus in the air, he 
grasped the lodgers one by one as the other firemen reached 
them out to him from the window, handed them over to his 
companion who had come up on the ladder, and who, after 
securing them on the ladder, one after the other, and with the 
assistance of the firemen below, helped them to descend to the 
street. The woman who had clung to the balcony was the first 
to come out, then a little girl, another woman and an old man 
followed. All were saved. After the old man, the firemen 
came down; and the corporal, who had been the first to runup, 
was the last one to descend. 

“The crowd received them all with an outburst of applause, 
but when the last one appeared, the van-guard of the rescuers, 
the one who had faced the abyss before the others, the one who 
would have died if it had been necessary for any one to lose his 
life, the crowd saluted him like a triumphing conqueror, shout¬ 
ing and stretching their arms with a loving impulse of admira¬ 
tion and gratitude, and in a few moments his obscure name, 
Giuseppe Robbino, resounded from thousands of lips. Do you 
understand ? This is true courage ! The courage of the heart 
which does not stop to reason, which does not waver, which 
goes blindly like a flash of lightning wherever he hears the cries 
of the dying. Some day, I will take you to see the firemen 
♦manceuvering and will point out to you Corporal Robbino, 
as I am sure that you would be very glad to meet him, would 
you not? ” 


214 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


I answered that I should. 

“Here he is,” said my father. 

I turned around startled. The two firemen, having finished 
their inspection, were crossing the room to go out. 

My father pointed to the smaller of the two, who had stripes 
of braid on his sleeves, and said to me: “ Shake the hand of 
Corporal Robbino.” 

The corporal, smiling, reached his hand to me; I shook it; 
he saluted me and left. 

“Remember it well,” said my father, “among thousands 
of hands that you will shake in your life, there may not be ten 
that are worth this one.” 


FROM THE APENNINES TO THE ANDES 

Many years ago a Genoese lad of about thirteen, son of a 
workman, went from Genoa to America, all alone, to search 
for his mother. 

Two years before she had gone to Buenos Ayres, the capi¬ 
tal of the Argentine Republic, to enter the service of some rich 
family, in order to earn in a short time enough to put the fam¬ 
ily in better circumstances; for, owing to various mishaps, they 
had fallen into poverty and debt. There are thousands of wo¬ 
men who would take such a long journey with that object. 
The people who went into service there, on account of the 
large salaries which they received, would return home in a few 
years with several thousands of lire. 

The poor mother had wept bitter tears at being separated 
from her children—the oldest was eighteen and the youngest 
eleven—but she departed full of courage and hope. She had 
quite a pleasant voyage, and as soon as she landed, through 
the influence of a Genoese cousin of her husband, who had 
been established in business there for a long time, she found 
work with a good Argentine family, who paid her high wages 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


215 


and treated her kindly. For a short time she kept up a regu¬ 
lar correspondence with her family. As they had agreed, the 
husband would direct letters to the cousin, who transmitted 
them to the woman, and the latter remitted the answers to'him 
and he would send them to Genoa, adding some lines of his 
own. Earning eighty lire a month and not spending anything 
for herself, she was sending home a nice little sum of money 

every three months, with which 
the husband, who was an up¬ 
right man, was gradually pay¬ 
ing his most urgent debts, and 
by degrees regaining his good 
reputa- 
- tion. In 
the 

meantime he was working 
and satisfied with his own 
affairs, always cherishing 
the hope that the mother 
would return soon, as the 
home seemed empty with¬ 
out her. The younger child 
especially, who loved his 
mother so much, was de¬ 
pressed and unable to rec¬ 
oncile himself to his moth¬ 
er’s absence. 

A year had passed since 
and after receiving a brief letter in which 
she was not feeling well, they received 
They wrote to the cousin twice, but he 
They wrote to the Argentine family by 
been employed, but probably the letter 



they had parted, 
the woman said 
no more news, 
did not reply, 
whom she had 


did not reach its destination, as they had misspelled the 
name in the address, and they never received an answer. 











216 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


Fearing some mishap had occurred, the husband wrote to the 
Italian consul at Buenos Ayres to make some inquiries. After 
three months the consul wrote back that, in spite of the adver¬ 
tisements in the papers, no one had even appeared to give any 
information concerning such a person. It must have been 
that the woman had not given the Argentine family her true 
name, thinking to spare the reputation of her family, whom 
she thought might be disgraced by her being a servant. A 
few months more passed without any news. Father and sons 
were in consternation, and the smaller of the boys was oppressed 
by a sadness which he could not conquer. What could be 
done ? To whom should they have recourse ? The first thought 
of the father had been to go and look for his wife in America. 
But how about his work. Who would support his sons ? The 
oldest son could not go away, as he was just beginning to earn 
something, and he was necessary to the family. So they lived 
on in constant anxiety, asking each other, day after day, the 
same painful questions, and looking silently at each other. 

Finally, one evening, Marco, the younger of the two boys, 
said resolutely: ‘‘ I will go to America to look for my mother.” 

His father shrugged his shoulders sadly but did not answer. 
It was a loving thought but an impossibility to undertake a 
trip to America alone at the age of thirteen, when it took a 
month to get there ! But the boy patiently persisted. He 
spoke of it that day and the day after, and every day with great 
calmness, reasoning with the good sense of a man. ‘ ‘ Others 
have gone there,” he would say, “who are smaller than I. 
When once on the boat, I will reach there the same as any one 
else. When I arrive, I have only to find the shop of my 
cousin. There are so many Italians there that some one will 
show me the way. When I find my cousin, I can easily find 
my mother. If I do not find him, I will go to the consul, I 
will look for the Argentine family. No matter what happens, 
there is work for all there and 1 will also find work, at least 
until I can earn enough to return home.” Thus little by little 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


217 


he almost persuaded his father to let him go. His father had 
the greatest esteem for him; he knew that he was judicious and 
courageous; that he was accustomed to privations and sacri¬ 
fices; and that all these good traits would acquire double force 
in the holy undertaking of finding his mother whom he adored. 
In addition to this, it happened that the captain of a steamer, 
a friend of an acquaintance of his, having heard something 
about the matter, pledged himself to provide a third-class 
ticket for him to America. 

After a little further hesitation, the father consented and 
the trip was decided upon. They filled a bag with clothes, put 
some “ scudi ” in his pocket, and gave him the address of his 
cousin; and on a beautiful morning in the month of May, they 
saw him on board. 

“My child! My Marco !” said his father, pressing the 
last kiss upon his cheek, with tears in his eyes, as he stood 
upon the steps of the steamer which was about to leave, ‘ ‘ have 
courage. You leave on a holy undertaking and God will help 
you.” 

Poor Marco ! He had a strong heart, prepared for all the 
hardest trials of that voyage, but when he saw his beautiful 
Genoa disappear, when he found himself upon the high seas 
on that large steamer thronged with emigrants, alone, unknown 
to every one, with a little bag which held all his fortune, a 
sudden discouragement seized him. He remained for two days 
sitting at the bows like a lost dog, eating scarcely anything, op¬ 
pressed by a great desire to weep. Every kind of sad present¬ 
iment, was passing through his mind, and the saddest, the most 
terrible was the most persistent in its return, the thought that 
his mother might be dead. In his painful and broken sleep, 
he always saw the face of a stranger looking at him with an 
air of pity, and whispering in his ear: “Your mother is 
dead.” Then he would awake with a suppressed cry on his 
lips. 

Nevertheless, at the first sight of the Atlantic Ocean, after 


218 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


passing the Straits of Gibraltar, he began to have a little 
courage and hope, but it was of short duration. That immense 
but never varying sea, the increasing heat, the sadness of all 
the poor people who surrounded him, the thought of his own 
solitude returned to depress him. The days which followed, 
empty and monotonous, were confused in his memory as it 
happens with a sick person. It seemed to him that he had 
been at sea for a year. Every morning when he awoke, he 
felt a new stupor at being there alone, on that immense body 
of water, on a voyage to America. Beautiful flying fishes fell 
from time to time upon the boat. He saw those marvelous 
tropical sunsets, those great blood-red clouds all aflame, those 
nocturnal phosphorescences, that make the ocean appear like 
a sea of lighted lava, all of which did not give him the impres¬ 
sion of real things but of prodigies seen in dreams. 

He experienced some days of bad weather, during which 
he remained locked in the dormitory, where everything was 
rolling and cracking, in the midst of a frightful chorus of la¬ 
mentations and imprecations, and he believed that his last hour 
had come. He sailed for three days through a yellowish sea, 
through days of unbearable heat, of infinite annoyance, of 
hours interminable and sinister, during which the passengers, 
enervated and stretched motionless upon the berths, looked like 
dead bodies. It seemed as though this voyage would never 
come to an end. Sea and sky, sky and sea, to-day like yester¬ 
day, and to-morrow like to-day—the same, always the same- 
eternally. 

He would lean over^the bulwarks for hours, looking at that 
boundless sea, dumbfounded; thinking vaguely of his mother 
until his eyes closed and he was falling down into sleep, and 
in his dream he would again see that strange face looking at 
him with pity and whispering in his ear: “ Your mother is 
dead!” 

At that voice, he would wake with a start and resume his 
dreamings with open eyes, looking at the unchangeable horizon. 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


219 


The voyage lasted twenty-seven days! The last days were 
the best. The weather was beautiful and the air was fresh. 
He had formed the acquaintance of an old man, a Lombard, 
who was going to America to join his son, a farm laborer near 
the city of Rosario. The boy told him everything about his 
home, and the old man would repeat to him from time to time, 
patting him on the back of the neck: “ Courage, my boy, you 
will find your mother in good health and contented.” The 
companionship of the old man comforted him, and his presenti¬ 
ments became more joyful. Sitting at the bow, under that 
beautiful starry sky, next to the old farmer who was smoking 
his pipe, in the midst of a group of emigrants, he fancied the 
scene of his arrival at Buenos Ayres a hundred times. He 
would see himself in a certain street, finding his cousin, rush¬ 
ing into the shop and asking him: “How is my mother? 
Where is she ? Let us go at once! Let us go at once! ” They 

would run together, ascend the steps, a door would open- 

and here his mute soliloquy would stop and his imagination 
would be lost in the inexplicable sentiment which caused him 
to look slily at a little medal which he wore on his neck, mur¬ 
muring his prayers while kissing it. 

They arrived at Buenos Ayres the twenty-seventh day after 
their departure. It was a beautiful rosy morning in the month 
of May when the steamer dropped anchor in that immense 
river La Plata. On the shore of the river stretched out the 
vast city of Buenos Ayres, the capital of the Argentine Re¬ 
public. The fine weather seemed to him to be a good omen. 
He was fairly beside himself with joy and impatience. His 
mother was only a few miles distant from him! In a few hours 
he would see her! He was in America, in the New World, 
and he had had the courage to come alone! All that extremely 
long voyage seemed to him as nothing. It seemed to him that 
he had dreamed and awoke at that point. He was so happy 
that he experienced no surprise or distress when he went 
through his pockets and found that one of the packages into 



220 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


which he had divided his little treasure in order not to lose it 
all, was gone. Some one had stolen it from him. He had 
only a few lire left, but what did he care now that he was so 
near his mother? With his bag in his right hand, he left the 
steamer with the other Italians and stepped into a little tug 
boat which carried him near the shore. Then he got into a 
row-boat, bearing the name of Andrea Dotia, and came upon 
the wharf. He bade good-bye to his old Lombard friend and 
started with long strides toward the city. 

As soon as he arrived at the entrance to the first street, he 
stopped a man who was passing and begged him to tell him 
which way to go to reach the street of los Artes. It happened 
that he stopped an Italian workman. The latter looked at him 
with curiosity and asked him if he knew how to read. The 
boy made a sign of assent. “Well,” said the workman, 
pointing out the street from which he came, “go up the street 
reading the names at the corners until you find the one you 
want.” The boy thanked him and began walking up the 
street before him. 

It was a straight and rather narrow road, and seemed end¬ 
less, flanked on either side by low, white houses, which looked 
like so many little cottages. It was crowded with people, car¬ 
riages and large wagons, making a deafening roar. Here and 
there hung enormous flags of various colors upon which was 
written in large letters the announcement of the departure of 
steamers for unknown cities. All the way, turning to the right 
and left, he saw the streets stretching as far ahead as one 
could see, all lined with low, white houses and filled with 
people and wagons. The streets all terminated in the bound¬ 
less American plain, similar to the horizon on the sea. The 
town seemed to him infinite. He thought that one could walk 
for days and days and for weeks, always seeing here and there 
other streets like those, and that the whole of America was 
covered with them. He looked attentively at the names of 
the streets, some of them very strange, which he could only 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


221 


read with great effort. Every new street he reached his heart 
would throb, hoping it might be the one he wanted. He 
looked at every woman, thinking that he might meet his 
mother. He saw one walking in front of him who caused the 
blood to leap in his veins. He overtook her; looked at her—it 
was a negress. He kept going and going, hastening his steps. 
When he reached a certain street and read the name, he stood 
there as though rooted to the sidewalk; it was the street of los 
Artes. He turned into it and saw the number 117; the store 
of his cousin was 175. He hurried his gait, almost running, 
until he reached the number 171, then he was obliged to stop 
and take breath, and he said to himself: ‘'Oh, my mother, 
my mother ! Is it really true that I will see you in a few 
moments?” He ran forward and came to a small dry-goods 
store. It was the one. He peeped in and saw a woman with 
eye-glasses. 

‘ ‘ What do you want, boy ? ’ ’ she asked him in Spanish. 

The boy, speaking with difficulty, said, “Is this not the 
store of Francesco Merelli ? ” 

“Francesco Merelli is dead,” replied the woman in the 
Italian tongue. 

The boy felt as if he had received a blow upon his breast. 

“When did he die?” 

“A long time ago,” replied the woman. “It is several 
months since he died. He met with failures and fled. It is 
said that he went to Bahia Blanca, a great distance from here, 
and that he died as soon as he reached there. This store is my 
own.” 

The boy grew pale. 

Then he said rapidly: “Merelli knew my mother, who 
was here in the service of Mequinez. He was the only one 
who could tell me where to find her. I came to America on 
purpose to find my mother. Morelli sent her our letters. I 
must find my mother.” 

“Poor child,” said the woman, “ I do not know. I will 


222 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


ask the boy out in the court-yard; he knew the young man 
who was running errands for Merelli. It may be that he 
knows something about it.” 

She went to the end ot the store and called the boy, who 
came indirectly. “Tell me,” said the store-keeper, “ do you 
remember that young man whom Merelli sent at times to carry 
letters to a woman in service in the house of his countryman?” 
“To Signor Mequinez,” the boy replied. “Yes, madam, I 
remember. He lives at the end of the street los Artes. ’ ’ 

“Thanks, madam, thanks!” cried Marco. “Tell me the 
number. Do you know it? Accompany me at once, I still 
have a few soldi left.” 

Marco said this with so much warmth, that without waiting 
for the order of the woman, the other boy exclaimed: ‘ ‘ Let 

us go,” and started out immediately. 

Almost running and without saying a word, they went to 
the end of a very long street, entered the entrance hall of a 
small white house, stopped in front of a beautiful iron gate 
from which a court, filled with vases of beautiful flowers, could 
be seen. Marco pulled the bell vigorously. 

A young lady appeared. ‘ ‘ Does the family of Mequinez 
live here ? ” anxiously inquired the lad. 

“ They did live here,” answered the young lady, pronounc¬ 
ing her Italian with a Spanish accent. ‘ 4 The Zeballos live 
here now.” 

‘ ‘ And where have the Mequinez family gone ? ’ ’ asked 
Marco with a palpitating heart. 

“ They have gone to Cordova.” 

‘ ‘ Cordova ! ’ ’ exclaimed Marco, ‘ ‘ where is Cordova ? 
And how is it about the woman they had in their service? The 
woman, my mother ! That woman was my mother! Did 
they take her with them ? ’ ’ 

The young lady looked at him and said: “ I do not know. 
My father who knew them before they left may be able to tell 
you. Wait a moment. * ’ 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


223 


She ran away and came back in a short time with her father, 
a tall gentleman with a grey beard. He looked for a moment 
at that sympathetic type of a little Genoese sailor with blonde 
hair and aquiline nose and said in bad Italian: ‘‘Is your 
mother a Genoese ? ’ ’ 

Marco replied' “yes!” 

“Well, the Genoese woman went with the family she served. 
I am certain that she did. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And where have they- gone ? 

“ To the town of Cordova.” 

The lad drew a deep sigh and then said with resignation, 
“ Then I must go to Cordova.” 

“c Ah, nino !” exclaimed the gentleman looking at him 
with an air of compassion. “ Poor boy ! It is hundreds of 
miles from here to Cordova.” 

Marco grew as pale as death and leaned upon the iron 
railing. 

The gentleman, moved to pity, opened the door and said: 
“ Let us see—come in a moment. Let us see what can be 
done.” He offered Marco a seat, sat down and had him tell 
his story, listening to him very attentively. He stood a 
moment in thought and then said resolutely: “ You have no 
money, have you?” 

“ I have still—a little,” answered Marco. 

The gentleman again thought for about five minutes and 
then seated himself at a desk and wrote a letter, sealed it, and 
handing it to the boy, said to him: “ Listen, Italianito. Take 
this letter and go to Boca. It is a small town, half Genoese, at 
about two hours distance from here. Any one can show you 
the way. Go there and look for the gentleman to whom this 
letter is addressed, and whom every one knows. Take this 
letter to him. He will arrange for you to leave to-morrow for 
Rosario, and he will recommend you to some one out there who 
will take it upon himself to see that you reach Cordova, where 
vou will find the Mequinez family and your mother. In the 


224 


THE HEART OF A BOY 

meanwhile, take this, and he thrust a few lire into his hand. 
4 ‘Go, and have courage. You will find your countrymen 
everywhere; you need not be ashamed. Adios.” 

The boy said: “Thanks.” He could find no other words 
with which to express himself. He went out with his bag, and 
taking leave of his little guide, he started slowly towards Boca, 
filled with sadness and amazement, as he marched through 
those noisy streets. 

All that happened to him from that moment until the even¬ 
ing of the next day was always confused and uncertain in his 
memory, like the vagaries of a person in a fever. He was so 
tired, disappointed, and despondent. He slept in a small room 
of a house in Boca the first night, by the side of a porter of the 
harbor. He passed nearly the whole of the next day sitting 
upon a pile of planks as if in a trance, gazing at thousands of 
ships, large boats, and tug boats, and that evening he found 
himself on the poop of a large sailing vessel, laden with fruit, 
which was leaving for the city of Rosario, managed by three 
robust Genoese, bronzed by exposure to the sun, whose voices 
and beloved dialect furnished him a little comfort. 

The voyage lasted for three days and four nights. It was * 
continued surprise to the little traveler. Three days and four 
nights on that marvelous river of Parana. In comparison to 
it, our river Po is nothing but a rivulet, and the length of Italy* 
quadrupled does not equal the length of its course. The boat 
moved slowly against that immense body of immeasurable 
water. It passed between long islands which were once the 
haunts of serpents and tigers, now covered with orange and 
willow trees, something like floating woods; and now it passed 
through narrow canals, from which it seemed it would never 
come out; then it sailed through vast expanses of water look¬ 
ing like large tranquil lakes; then again between islands and 
through the intricate channels of an archipelago, in the midst of 
enormous masses of vegetation. A most profound silence 
reigned. For long distances, the shores, the solitary and vast 


the; hkart of a boy 


225 


waters offered the suggestion of an unknown river, upon which 
that poor sailing vessel was the first one in the world to ven¬ 
ture. The farther he advanced, the more that monstrous river 
dismayed him. He would imagine that his mother could be 
found at the source of that river and that the voyage would last 
for years. Twice a day he ate a little bread and salt meat with 
the boatmen, who, observing that he was sad, did not say a 
word to him. During the night, he slept upon the deck, and 
woke once in awhile astounded by the limpid light of the moon, 
which was glittering over the vast waters and whitening the 
distant shores, and his head was oppressed. “ Cordova ! ” he 
repeated that name: “Cordova!” like the name of one of 
those mysterious cities of which he had heard in some fable. 
Then he would think: “ My mother passed through here, she 
has seen these islands, these shores,” and then those places did 
not seem so strange and solitary to him, upon which the gaze 
of his mother had rested. During the night, one of the boat¬ 
men sang. That song reminded him of the songs which his 
mother sang him to sleep when he was a babe. The last night 
when he heard that song, he sobbed. The boatman stopped, 
and then he cried out: “ Courage ! Courage, my child ! 
What is the use ? A Genoese does not cry because he is 
so far away from home ! The Genoese go around the world, 
glorious and triumphant ! ” 

Hearing those words, Marco shook himself, raised himself 
haughtily, beating the helm with his fist: Yes, ” he said to him¬ 
self ‘ ‘should I have to search through the whole world and travel 
years and years yet, and walk hundreds of miles, I shall go 
ahead until I find my mother. Even if I should reach her 
dying and drop dead at her feet, if I may only see her once 
again ! Courage ! ”—In this state of mind, on a rosy morn¬ 
ing at daybreak, he arrived in front of the city of Rosario, sit¬ 
uated on a high bank of the Parana, where the beflagged yards 
of hundreds of ships from all over the world were mirrored in 
the water. 


226 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


After landing, he went up to the city, with his bag in his 
hand, to look for the Argentine gentleman for whom his pro¬ 
tector at Boca had given him a visiting card with a few words 
of recommendation written upon it. He beheld those inter¬ 
minable streets, traversing in all directions, flanked by low, 
white houses; and above the roofs there were great bundles of 
telegraph and telephone wires which looked like enormous 
spider webs. The streets were filled with swarms of people, 
horses and wagons. His mind was confused; he thought for a 
moment that he was entering Buenos Ayres again, and that he 
would have to look for his cousin once more. He walked 
around for about an hour, making turn after turn, and it 
seemed to him all the time as though he were walking over the 
same street. By constantly inquiring, he found the house of 
his new protector. He rang the bell. A big, blonde man, 
with a gruff voice, who looked like a country steward, awk¬ 
wardly asked him, with a strange pronunciation, “What do 
you want ? ” 

The boy spoke the name of the master. 

The steward replied, “The master left last night with all 
his family for Buenos Ayres.” 

The boy was speechless. 

Then he stammered, ‘ * But I—I know no one here? I am 
alone ! ” and he showed the card. 

The country steward took it and read it, and said brusquely, 
“ I do not know what to do about it. I will hand it to him 
when he comes back in a month. ’ ’ 

“ But I—I am alone. I am in want,” said the boy in a 
beseeching voice. 

“ Come, come, now,” said the man, “are there not enough 
parasites who come from your country to Rosario to beg? Go 
back and do your begging in Italy.” 

And he closed the gate in his face. 

The boy stood there as though petrified. 

Then he slowly took up his bag again and went out with 



the: heart of a boy 


227 


his heart full of anguish and his mind in a whirl, at once as¬ 
sailed by a thousand sorrowful thoughts. What was there to 
be done? Where could he go? From Rosario to Cordova 
was a day's ride by rail. He had only a few lire. Deducting 
what he needed for that day, he would scarcely have anything 
left. How could he find money for his trip ? He could work, 
but how, and of whom should he ask work ? Ask for alms i 
No, no; to be rebuked, humiliated and insulted as before? No, 
never, never again; he would rather die ! With that thought, 
and seeing in front of him a very long street which lost itself 
far away in the boundless plain, his courage gave way again. 
He threw his bag on the sidewalk, and sat with his shoulders 
against the wall, bending his head upon his hands, without 
crying, in an attitude of desolation. 

The people in passing jostled him with their feet, the 
wagons filled the air with noise; some boys stopped to look at 
him. He remained in that position for a long time. 

At last he was startled by a voice, half Italian and half Lom¬ 
bard, which called out: “ What is the matter, little fellow ? ” 

He raised his head at those words and immediately jumped 
to his feet, uttering an exclamation of surprise: “You here! ” 
It was the old Lombard farmer with whom he had formed a 
companionship during his voyage. 

The surprise of the farmer was not less than that of the boy, 
but the latter did not give him time to question him, and he 
told rapidly all that had happened to him since he left him at 
the wharf in Buenos Ayres. “Now I am without money. 
That is my condition. I must work. Find me some work, 
that I may be able to earn a few lire; I will do anything; I 
will carry merchandise, sweep the streets, I can run errands, I 
can work in the country, I will be satisfied to live upon black 
bread, if only I may be able to leave soon, if only I may find 
my mother again. Do me this favor; some work; give me 
some work, for the love of God, as this is more than I can en¬ 
dure!” 


228 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


‘ ‘ The deuce, ’ ’ said the farmer, looking around and rubbing 

his chin. ‘‘ What a tale!-One can easily say ‘ some work . 1 

Let us think a little. There may be a way to find thirty lire 
among so many compatriots! ” 

The boy was looking at him, comforted by a ray of hope. 

“ Come with me,” said the farmer. 

‘ ‘ Where ? ’ ’ asked the boy, picking up his bag. 

“ Come with me.” 

The farmer started out and the boy followed him. They 
went for a long distance in the street without talking. The 
farmer stopped at the door of an inn, which had a sign in the 
shape of a star upon which was written: “ La Estrella de 
Italia .” He looked in and turning to the boy said playfully: 
“ We have come at a good time.” 

They entered one of the large halls where there were sev¬ 
eral tables and a number of men seated, who were drinking 
and talking loudly. The old Lombard approached the first 
table, and from the way in which he saluted the six customers 
who sat around it, one could see that he had been in their com¬ 
pany only a short time before. 

They were red in the face and were clinking their glasses, 
shouting and laughing. “Comrades,” said the Lombard, 
standing up and presenting Marco: “ Here is a poor boy, a 
countryman of ours, who came from Genoa to Buenos Ayres 
searching for his mother. When he reached Buenos Ayres, 
they told him: ‘She is not here, she has gone to Cordova.’ 
He comes to Rosario in a boat, traveling three days and three 
nights, with two lines of recommendation; he presents the 
card and they make an ugly face at him. He has not the 
shadow of a centesimo. He is here alone and in despair. I 
know him; he is a boy full of heart; let us think a lit¬ 
tle. Can he not find enough here to pay for his ticket to Cor¬ 
dova and find his mother ? Shall we abandon him here like a 
dog?” 

‘ ‘ Never in the world! ” “ That shall never be said! ’ ’ they 



THE HEART OF A BOY 


229 


cried together, striking their fists on the table. ‘ ‘ A country¬ 
man of ours!” “Come here, little fellow.” “We, too, are 
emigrants here!” “kook what a fine rogue.” “Out with 
your money, comrades! ” “ Good boy! He came here alone. 

He has lots of pluck ! ” “ Have a drink, compatriot! ” “ We 
will send you to your mother, never fear.” 

One pinched him in the cheek, another patted him on the 
shoulder, and a third relieved him of his bag. Some of the 
other emigrants arose from the neighboring tables and ap¬ 
proached. The story of the boy made the rounds of the inn. 
Three Argentine customers came in from the next room, and 
in less than ten minutes the Lombard farmer, who was passing 
the hat, gathered in over nine dollars. 

“Do you see,” he said, turning toward the boy, “how 
quickly one does business in Ame/ica ? ” 

“ Drink,” cried another, reaching out a glass of wine, “to 
the health of your mother. ” They all raised their glasses, and 
Marco repeated: 

“ To the health of my-” but a sob of joy choked his 

utterance, and replacing his gUss upon the table, he threw his 
arms around the old man’s neck. 

He left for Cordova the nex v , morning before daybreak, bold 
and smiling, his heart filled with happy presentiments. But 
there is no joyousness which reigns for a long time surrounded 
by the sinister aspects of nature. The weather was dark and 
disagreeable. The train was empty and ran through an im¬ 
mense plain, bereft of every sign of vegetation. He found 
himself alone in a very long car which resembled those that 
are used for carrying the wounded. He gazed to the right and 
left, seeing nothing but a boundless solitude, and here and 
there were scattered small dwarf trees with distorted trunks 
and branches, in such shapes as he had never seen before, as 
though they had been twisted and gnarled by wrath and 
anguish. Rank and dark vegetation could be seen everywhere, 
which gave to the prairie the appearance of a boundless cerne- 



230 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


tery. He would doze for a half hour and then look around 
him again; always seeing the same spectacle. The railway 
stations were lonesome like the huts of hermits, and not a voice 
could be heard. It seemed to him that he was on a lost train, 
abandoned in the middle of a desert. He fancied that every 
station he passed by ought to be the last, and from that point 
he was going to enter into some mysterious and frightful land 
inhabited by savages. A sharp breeze blew in his face. When 
sailing from Genoa about the last of April, his friends had not 
thought that in South America he would find a wintry season 
and they had clad him in summer clothes. After many hours, 
he began to suffer from the cold, and in addition to this suffer¬ 
ing he felt the lassitude of the previous days, filled with violent 
emotions, and of harassing and sleepless nights. He fell asleep 
and slept for a long time; when he awoke, he felt chilled and 
sick. A vague terror seized him for fear he might be taken 
ill or die on his way, and be thrown into the midst of that 
desolate plain, where his body would be torn by dogs and 
birds of prey, like the bodies of horses and cows which be 
had seen at different places near the railway track, and 
from which he would turn away his eyes in disgust. In the 
midst of the restless agitation of that sad silence of nature, his 
imagination would become excited and grow very somber. Was 
he over-confident of finding his mother in Cordova ? And if 
she had not gone there ? If that gentleman of the via los Artes 
should have made a mistake ? And if she were dead ? 

With such oppressing thoughts, he fell asleep again and 
dreamed he was in Cordova; it was night and he heard from 
every door and from every window people cry: “She is not 
here ! She is not here ! ” This roused him with a start, ter¬ 
rified with horror; when he saw at the end of the car three 
bearded men, wrapped in shawls of various colors, who were 
talking softly among themselves and looking at him. A sus¬ 
picion that they were murderers flashed through his mind, and 
he thought they were planning to kill him, to rob him of his 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


231 


bag. To the cold and the oppression of his heart fear was added; 
and his perturbed fancy became distorted, while the three men 
still gazed at him. 

One of them got up and moved towards him. Then he lost 
his self-control, and, running to meet him with his arms out¬ 
stretched, he cried: “ I have nothing ! I am a poor boy ! I 
came from Italy to look for my mother ! I am alone, do not 
hurt me ! ’* 

The men understood everything and were moved to pity. 
They caressed and quieted him, saying many words which he 
could not understand, and, noticing that his teeth were chatter¬ 
ing with the cold, they put their shawls around him and had 
him sit down again. He fell asleep once more when it was 
growing dark. When they woke him up, he was in Cor¬ 
dova. 

Ah, what a breath he drew, and with what impetuosity he 
rushed out of the car. He asked a railway employe at the sta¬ 
tion where the engineer Mequinez lived. The latter gave him 
the name of a church next to which was the Mequinez dwell¬ 
ing. The boy hurried hither. It was night when he entered 
the city. It seemed to him that he was again entering Ro¬ 
sario, and that he saw those straight streets flanked by small 
white houses and crossed by straight and endless streets. 
There were few people out, but under the light of the street 
lamps far apart he saw some strange faces of an unfamiliar 
color, something between a black and greenish complexion. 
Raising his eyes from time to time, he beheld churches of a 
peculiar architecture, which were outlined black and enormous 
against the sky. The city was dark and silent; but after hav¬ 
ing crossed that immense desert, it seemed cheerful to him. 
He inquired his way of a priest, and soon after found the 
church and the house. He pulled the bell with a trembling 
hand, while pressing the other on his breast to suppress the 
palpitation of his heart, which seemed to be jumping into his 
throat. 


232 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


An old woman came to open the door with a lamp in her 
hand. 

At first the boy was unable to speak. 

‘ ‘ For whom are you looking ? ’ ’ inquired the woman in 
Spanish. 

“ For the engineer Mequinez,” said Marco. 

The woman crossed her arms on her breast and answered, 
nodding her head, “You are also one of those who are after 
the engineer Mequinez! It seems to me that it must be about 
time for this thing to stop. They have bothered me now for 
more than three months. Is it not enough that it was pub¬ 
lished in the newspapers? It will be necessary to have it posted 
on the corners of the streets that the Senor Mequinez has gone 
to live in Tucuman! ” 

The boy made a gesture as though he were in desperation; 
then, breaking into a wild rage, he said: “It is a curse! 
I shall have to die on my way without being able to find 
my mother! I am going crazy; I will kill myself ! My God! 
What did you call that place? Where is it? How far from 
here? ” 

“ Eh, poor lad,” cried the old woman, moved to pity, “ It 
is not a trifle. It must be four or five hundred miles, at the 
least.” 

The boy covered his face with both hands, and then asked, 
sobbing, “And now-what can I do? ” 

“ What can I tell you, poor child? ” answered the woman. 
“ I do not know. ” 

Suddenly, however, a thought flashed through her mind, 
and she hurriedly suggested: “ Hear me, now I think of it. 
Turn to the right and you will find at the third door a court¬ 
yard. There is a capataz, a merchant, who leaves to-morrow 
morning for Tucuman with his carretas and his oxen. Go 
and see if he feels like taking you along. Offer him your 
services; probably he will make a place for you on one of his 
wagons. ’ ’ 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


233 


The boy thanked the woman, ran away, and two minutes 
after he was in a vast court-yard, lighted by a lantern, where 
several men were about to load bags of wheat upon some very 
large wagons, similar to the movable houses of the mounte¬ 
banks, with a round roof and very high wheels, while a tall 
man with a long mustache, wrapped in a sort of mantle of 
black and white plaid, wearing high top boots, was directing 
the work. The boy approached the latter, and expressed his 
wish, saying that he had come from Italy and that he was 
searching for his mother. 

The capataz (the head conductor of that convoy of wagons) 
cast a glance at him from head to foot, and said drily, “ I have 
no room.” 

‘ ‘ I have fifteen lire, ’ ’ said the boy in a beseeching manner; 
‘ ‘ I will give them all to you. And I am willing to work on 
the way. I will go and haul water for the oxen; I will do any¬ 
thing. A little bread is enough for me. Do grant me a little 
place, signore! ” 

The capataz looked at him again and answered, in a milder 

tone: ‘ ‘ There is no room-and besides-we are not going 

to Tucuman; we are going to another city, Santiago dell 
’Estero. At a certain place we should have to drop you and 
you would have a long distance to go on foot.” 

“I am ready to walk double the distance! ” exclaimed 
Marco; “ I am ready to walk, do not worry about that; I will 
go, no matter how: do make a little room for me, signore, for 
heaven’s sake; do not leave me here alone! ” 

“Think of it; it is a long trip of twenty days/* 

“ It does not matter.” 

“ It is an uncomfortable trip! ” 

“ I will endure it all.” 

“You will have to travel alone.” 

‘ 4 1 fear nothing; if only I can find my mother again. Have 
pitv upon me! ” 




234 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


The capataz put a lantern up to his face and scrutinized him; 
then he said: “Well, you may go! ” 

The boy kissed his hand. 

“ For to-night, you may sleep on a wagon,” said the cap¬ 
ataz, leaving him there. “ I will wake you to-morrow morning 
at four o’clock. Buenas noches! ” 

The next morning at four, while it was still starlight, the 
long row of wagons started out with a great deal of noise, each 
wagon being drawn by six oxen, followed by a large number 
of animals for relays. The boy awoke and they put him in¬ 
side one of the wagons, and he immediately fell into a pro¬ 
found sleep. When he awoke, the convoy had stopped in a 
solitary spot. All the men — the peones — were sitting in a 
circle around a quarter of a calf, which was roasting over a 
large fire in the open air, stuck upon an iron spear planted 
firmly in the ground. They all ate together, slept awhile 
and started out again. The journey continued, regulated 
like a march of soldiers. Every morning they would set 
out at five and halt at nine; tney would leave again at five in 
the evening, halting again at ten. The peones were riding 
on horseback, stimulating the oxen with long poles. The lad 
would light the fire for the roast, feed the animals, clean the 
lanterns, and carry the water for the men to drink. The coun¬ 
try passed before him like an indistinct vision. There were 
vast woods of small dark trees; villages containing but a few 
houses scattered around, with red facades and battlements. 
He gazed over extensive spaces, perhaps the ancient beds of 
rivers or large salt lakes, glimmering with salt as far as the 
eye could reach; and continually, on every side, a plain, a soli¬ 
tude, a silence. 

At rare intervals, they would meet two or three travelers on 
horseback, followed by a herd of horses, galloping like a whirl¬ 
wind. The days were all alike as they had been at sea, tire¬ 
some and endless. However, the weather was beautiful, but 
the peones were becoming more and more exacting every day, 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


235 


and they treated the boy as though he were their bounden 
servant; some of them even threatened him and abused him 
brutally; some forced him to serve them without mercy, mak¬ 
ing him carry great loads of forage, and sending him long 
distances for water; and the poor boy, worn out with fatigue, 
could not even sleep at night, constantly shaken by the violent 
jolts of the wagon, and disturbed by the deafening noise of 
the wheels and wooden axles. In addition to this, the wind 
had risen and a thin, reddish, greasy dirt enveloped everything, 
penetrating into the wagons and making its way through his 
clothes. It filled his eyes and mouth (depriving him of his 
eyesight and making it difficult for him to breathe), in a per¬ 
sistent and unbearable manner. Exhausted by fatigue and loss 
of sleep, ragged and dirty, reproved and maltreated from morn¬ 
ing until night, the poor lad became more and more dejected as 
the days passed. He would have lost his wits entirely if the 
capataz had not once in awhile spoken a kind word to him. 
Oftentimes, when in a corner of the wagon, unseen, he would 
cry, hiding his face inside of his bag which now contained only a 
few rags. Every morning he got up, more feeble and more dis¬ 
couraged, and looked at the country, always seeing that same 
boundless and unchanging plain like an ocean of sand, and he 
would say: ‘ ‘ Oh, I cannot endure this until night! To-day I 
will die on the way ! ” His fatigue was growing and the mal¬ 
treatment increased. One morning he was slow in carrying 
the water, and in the absence of the capataz one of the men 
beat him. After this example, they began to beat him habit¬ 
ually; when they were giving him an order they would give 
him a blow, saying: “Take that, vagabond ! Take that to 
your mother! ” His heart was almost broken. He fell sick 
and remained for three days upon the wagon, with a cover over 
him, shaking with fever and seeing no one but the capataz 
who came now and then to offer him a drink and to feel his 
pulse. He thought himself lost and was invoking his mother 
desperately, calling her by name a hundred times. “Oh, my 


236 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


mother! Help me! Come and meet me, I am dying! Oh, 
poor mother, I will never see you again! Poor mother, you will 
find me dead on the way! ’ * And he folded his hands upon his 
breast and prayed. Then he began to recover, owing to the care of 
the capataz. He regained his health; but with the return of 
his health came the most terrible day of his journey, the day 
in which he had to be left alone. They had been on the way 
for more than two weeks, when they came to the place where 
the road to Tucuman parted from the one which leads to San¬ 
tiago dell’ Estero. The capataz told him they were about to 
separate. He furnished him with some information concerning 
the road, tied the bag upon his shoulders in such a way that 
it would not annoy him in walking, and saying little to him, as 
if he feared to show emotion, he bade him good bye. The lad 
had barely time to kiss his hand. The other men who had 
treated him so harshly also seemed to feel a little pity at seeing 
him left alone, and made him signs of farewell as they moved 
away. He returned the salute with his hand and stood looking 
at the convoy until it was lost in the reddish dust of the coun¬ 
try, and then sadly started out on his way. 

Something, however, comforted him a little from the begin¬ 
ning. After all those days of travel across the boundless plain 
having all the time the same aspect, he saw in front of him a 
chain of very high azure mountains, with white tops, which 
recalled to his mind the Alps and which made him feel as 
though he were approaching his own country. It was the 
Andes, the dorsal spine of the American Continent, that 
immense chain which extends from Terra del Fuego to the 
glacial sea of the Arctic Pole, through one hundred and ten 
degrees of latitude. He was also comforted by feeling that the 
air was all the time growing warmer, and this happened 
because he was going to the north and nearing the tropical 
regions. At great distances from each other, he passed by 
small groups of houses with a little shop where he would buy 
something to eat He met men on horseback; from time to 























THE HEART OF A BOY 


237 


time, he saw women and boys sitting motionless on the ground 
with grave faces, entirely new to him, of an earthen color, 
with oblique eyes and prominent cheek bones. They looked 
at him fixedly and followed him with their eyes, turning theii 
heads like automatons. They were Indians. 

During the first day, he walked as far as his strength would 
permit and slept under a tree. The second day, he walked 
less and with less spirit. Towards evening, he began to be 
afraid. He had heard in Italy that there were serpents in these 
countries. He would stop, thinking he heard them crawling, 
and then he would start on a run and a cold chill would creep 
over him. A great compassion for himself would overtake him 
at times, and he cried silently, all the time walking on. Then 
he thought: “How my mother would suffer if she knew that I 
am so frightened,” and the thought of that would give him 
courage. In order to distract his thoughts and forget his fear, 
he would think of many things concerning his mother. He 
recalled her words when she left Genoa, and the gesture with 
which she was accustomed to arrange the blankets under his 
chin when he was in bed. When he was a little child, she 
would take him in her arms saying: “Stay with me fora 
moment,” and he would stay that way for a long time, with 
his head leaning upon her, thinking and thinking. He was 
saying to himself: “Willi ever see you again, dear mother? 
Will I ever reach the end of my journey, mother? ” And he 
walked on and on amidst unknown trees and vast plantations 
of sugar-cane, and over immense prairies, with those azure 
mountains, which pierced the serene sky with their peaks, 
always before him. 

Four days-five-then a week passed. His strength 

was gradually decreasing, his feet were bleeding. Finally, one 
evening towards sunset, some one told him: “Tucuman is only 
five miles from here. ’ ’ 

He uttered a cry of joy and hastened his step as though he 
had suddenly regained his lost vigor, but it was a brief respite. 



238 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


His strength suddenly failed him, and worn out he fell upon 
the brink of the ditch. However, his heart was beating with 
happiness. The sky above, thick with shining stars, had never 
seemed so beautiful to him. He contemplated the firmament 
while lying on the grass trying to sleep, and thought perhaps 
his mother was looking at him. He exclaimed: “Oh, my 
mother, where are you ? What are you doing at this moment ? 
Do you think of your child ? Do you think of your Marco, who 
is so near you ? ’ ’ 

Poor Marco, if he could have seen in what a state his mother 
was at that minute, he would have made a superhuman effort 
to go ahead and reach her at the earliest possible moment. She 
was sick in bed in a room on the ground floor of a lordly house 
where lived the Mequinez family, who had grown very fond of 
her, and who were bestowing upon her every attention. The 
poor woman was sickly when the engineer Mequinez had sud¬ 
denly been obliged to leave Buenos Ayres and she had not 
entirely recovered with the good air of Cordova. In addition 
to this, the fact of not receiving any answer to her letters either 
from her husband or from their cousin; the vivid, growing pre¬ 
sentiment of a great calamity, and the continual anxiety in which 
she had lived, not knowing whether to leave or to remain, ex¬ 
pecting every day some bad news, had caused her to grow worse. 
At last, a very grave illness had manifested itself, an internal 
lesion. She had not left her bed for the last fifteen days. A 
surgical operation was necessary to save her life. Just at that 
moment when Marco was invoking her, the master and 
mistress of the house stood at her beside, trying with much 
kindness to persuade her to allow the operation to be per¬ 
formed, while she, weeping, persisted in her refusal. A good 
surgeon from Tucuman had come the previous week, but in 
vain. 

“No, dear masters,” she exclaimed, “it is not worth 
while; I no longer have the strength to endure it; I would die 
under the knife of the surgeon. It is better that you let me 


























































































THE HEART OF A BOY 


239 


die now. I do not care to live any longer. Everything has 
come to an end with me. It is better that I should die before 
I know what great misfortune has happened to my family.” 

But the master was telling her that it must not be so, that she 
should take courage, that she would soon receive an answer to 
the last letter which had been sent direct to Genoa if she would 
only allow the operation to be performed; she ought to do it for 
the sake of her children! 

The suggestion of her children did nothing but aggravate 
her anguish and the profound discouragement which had pros¬ 
trated her for a long time. Hearing those words she burst into 
tears: 

“Oh, my poor children! My poor children!” she ex¬ 
claimed, clasping her hands, “perhaps they are no longer 
alive! It is better that I should die, too. I thank you, my 
dear masters, I thank you with all my heart. But it is better 
that I should die. I know I would not recover even after the 
operation had been performed; I am certain of it. Thanks for 
all the cares that you have bestowed upon me, my kind mas¬ 
ters. It is useless for the surgeon to come back to-morrow; I 
wish to die. It is my destiny that I should die here. I have 
decided.” 

They still tried to console her, and said: “No, do not say 
so,” and would take her by the hands and beg of her. But 
she closed her eyes, worn out with exhaustion, and fell into a 
sort of a trance which made her look as if she were dead. Both 
the master and mistress remained there a short time, and by 
the dim light of a small lamp they gazed with great compas¬ 
sion upon that admirable mother, who, in order to save her 
family, had come to die seven thousand miles from her native 
country; to die after having suffered so much; poor woman, 
so honest, so good, but so unhappy. 

Early in the morning of the next day, with his bag on his 
shoulder, bent and limping, but full of spirit, Marco entered 
the city of Tucuinan, one of the youngest and most flourishing 


240 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


cities of the Argentine Republic. It seemed to him that he 
again beheld Cordova, Rosario and Buenos Ayres. There were 
the same long, endless, straight streets, with those low, white 
houses; but on every side there was a young and luxuriant 
vegetation, a perfumed air, a marvelous light, a limpid and 
profound sky, such as he had seen in Italy. As he was going 
through the streets, that feverish agitation, which had over¬ 
taken him at Buenos Ayres, again took possession of him; he 
looked at the windows and the doors of the houses, gazed at 
the women who were passing, with the anxious hope of meet¬ 
ing his mother. He felt like questioning every one, but did 
not dare to stop anybody. From the doors of the houses, the 
people would turn to look at that poor, ragged and dusty boy, 
whose appearance showed that he had come from a great dis¬ 
tance. He looked among the people for a face that would in¬ 
spire him with confidence enough to ask that tremendous 
question, when his eyes fell upon the sign of a store, upon 
which he read an Italian name. He saw a man and two wo¬ 
men inside. He slowly approached and summoning a resolute 
courage and calmness said: “ Will you tell me, sir, where the 
family of Mequinez lives ? ” 

“ The ingeniero Mequinez? ” asked the shopkeeper in his 
turn. 

“ The engineer Mequinez,” replied the boy in a despairing 
voice. 

“ The Mequinez family,” said the shopkeeper, “ is not in 
Tucuman. ’ ’ 

A desperate outburst of pain, like that of a person who has 
been stabbed, rang as the echo of those words. 

The shop-keeper and the women arose, and some of the 
neighbors ran to him. “What is the matter, boy,” said the 
shop-keeper, drawing him inside of the store and putting him 
on a chair. “There is no use despairing. The Mequinez 
family is not here, but at a short distance, only a few hours’ 
walk from Tucuman.” 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


241 


*■ Whereabouts? Whereabouts? ” cried Marco, springing 
up as if restored to life again. 

“About fifteen miles from here,” pursued the man, “ on the 
shore of the Saladillo river, in a place where they are building 
a large sugar factory, a cluster of houses, one of which is the 
home of signor Mequinez. Everybody knows it, and you can 
reach there in a few hours.” 

“I was there a month ago,” said a young man who had 
run forward at that cry. 

Marco looked at him with wide open eyes, and, growing 
pale, he impatiently asked, “Have you seen the woman in 
the service of signor Mequinez—the Italian woman? ’ ’ 

“ The Genovesa? Yes; I have seen her/’ 

Marco burst into convulsive sobbing, half laughing, half 
crying. 

Then with a sudden resolution he impetuously asked: 
“ Which way must I go? Quick; show me the way, and I will 
leave at once.” 

“But it is a day’s walk,” they all said together. “You 
are tired; you must rest; you can start in the morning. 

“Impossible! Impossible!” cried the boy. “Tell me 
which way to go. I cannot wait a moment, I want to go at 
once, even if I have to die on the way.” 

Seeing how inflexible he was, they opposed him no longer. 
“May God be with you,” they said. “Lookout on your 
way through the forest.” “ Pleasant trip to you, Italianito.” 

The man escorted him outside the door and showed him 
the way, giving him some instructions about the road, and 
waiting to see him go. After a few minutes the boy disap¬ 
peared behind the thick trees which lined the road. 

That very night was a terrible one for the poor sick woman 
who suffered excruciating pains which wrung shrieks from 
her almost enough to burst her veins, and rendered her 
delirious at times. The women who waited upon her were at a 
loss. The mistress ran in from time to time affrighted. They 


242 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


all commenced to fear that even if the operation were decided 
upon, the physician who would have to come the day after 
would arrive too late. In the intervals in which she was 
not delirious one could see that she suffered more terrible tor¬ 
ture from the thought of her distant family than from her 
bodily pains. With an agonized look on her distorted face, 
she would thrust her hands into her hair in a desperate gest¬ 
ure, which was heart-rending, and cry: 

“Oh, my God! My God! To die and so far away! To 
die without seeing them again! My poor children who will be 
without a mother, my young creatures, my dearest ones! My 
little Marco, who is still so small, only tall as this, and so affec¬ 
tionate! You do not know what kind of a boy he was! Oh, 
my mistress, if you only knew! I could scarcely tear him away 
from my neck when I departed, he sobbed enough to move any 
one to pity; it seemed as though he apprehended that he would 
never see his mother again! My pool Marco! My poor child! 
I thought my heart would burst! Ah, if I had only died then, 
when he was bidding me farewell. It would have been far better 
if I had dropped dead then! Without a mother, poor child, he 
who loved me so much, who wanted me so badly, without a 
mother, reduced to misery, he will have to go and beg, he, my 
Marco, to be obliged to stretch out his hand in hunger——Oh! 
Eternal God! No, I do not wish to die! Call the doctor! 
Call him at once! Let him come! Let him cleave my breast! 
Let him drive me mad, only let my life be saved! I wish to 
recover, I wish to live, I want to go away to-morrow, at once. 
The doctor! Help! Help! ”—The women around her seized 
her by the hands, caressingly and begging her to calm herself, 
speaking to her of God and of hope. Then she would fall 
back in a mortal dejection, weeping, wdth her hands on her 
grey hair, moaning like a child, uttering deep lamentations, 
and murmuring from time to time: “Oh! my Genoa! My 
home! All that sea! Oh! my Marco, my poor Marco! Where 
is he now, that poor child of mine? ” 



the: hkart of a boy 


243 


It was midnight, and poor Marco, exhausted with fatigue, 
having spent many hours upon the bank of a stream, was then 
walking through a vast forest of gigantic trees, monsters of 
vegetation, whose huge trunks, similar to the pillars of a cathe¬ 
dral, interlaced their enormous silvery branches at a lofty height 
under the light of the moon. Through that semi-obscurity, he 
dimly perceived myriads of trunks of all shapes, upright, in¬ 
clined, contorted, crossing each other in strange positions of 
menace, and some of them overthrown on the ground like 
towers that had fallen down a long time ago, covered with a 
thick and confused mass of vegetation which looked like a 
throng of people who were disputing, inch by inch, the pos¬ 
session of the forest. Others collected in groups stood verti¬ 
cally bound together like trophies of Titanic lances, whose tops 
touched the clouds; a superb grandeur, a prodigious disorder 
of colossal forms, the most majestic, terrible spectacle that 
vegetation had ever offered to him. At times a great stupor 
overtook him. But at once his soul took flight toward his 
mother. He was totally worn out. His feet were bleeding. 
He was alone in the midst of that formidable forest, where he 
only saw at long intervals some small human dwellings, which 
looked like ant hills in comparison with those enormous trees. 
He passed some sleeping buffaloes by the side of the road. 
He was tired out, but did not feel his weariness; he was alone, 
but did not feel afraid. The grandeur of the forest enlarged 
his soul. The nearness of his mother infused in him the 
strength and boldness of a man; the remembrance of the ocean, 
of the sufferings, of the struggles which he had undergone, all 
the fatigues he had endured, the iron constancy which he had 
displayed, caused him to uplift his head. All the strong 
and noble Genoese blood flowed back to his heart like a 
warm tide of joy and audacity. A new feeling arose in his 
mind. Up to that time he had borne in his brain a dark and 
faded image of his mother, dimmed by the two years of separa¬ 
tion, but in this moment her image grew clear; he saw her 


244 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


wholesome and open face as he had not seen it for a long time. 
He saw her near him, illuminated and speaking; he saw again 
the most fleeting motions of her eyes and of her lips, all her 
attitudes, all her gestures, the very shadow of her thoughts; and, 
urged on by these remembrances, he hastened his step, while 
a new affection and an indescribable tenderness was becoming 
stronger and stronger in his heart, causing some sweet and 
quiet tears to flow down his cheeks. Going along in the dark¬ 
ness, it seemed that he spoke to her, that he whispered words 
to her, that he would murmur in her ear, before long: “ I am 
here, mother ; here I am ; I will never leave you again ; we 
shall return home together; I shall always be near you upon 
the boat, close beside you, and no one shall ever take me from 
you, nevermore, till you shall leave this world! ” And he did 
not perceive that from the tops of the gigantic trees, the silvery 
light of the moon was dying out in the delicate whiteness of the 
dawn. 

At eight o’clock on that same morning, the physician of 
Tucuman, a young Argentine gentleman, was already at the 
bedside of the poor sick woman, accompanied by the surgeon, 
trying for the last time to persuade her to allow the operation 
to be performed, and the engineer Mequinez and his wife were 
adding their persuasions to that of the others. But it was all 
in vain. The woman, feeling that she was exhausted, had no 
longer any confidence in the operation; she was certain that 
she would either die under it or would only survive half an 
hour after suffering more terrible pains than those which would 
naturally kill her. The physician was repeating that the op¬ 
eration was a sure one, that her safety was certain if she would 
only exercise a little courage, and he added that her death was 
equally certain if she refused. These were words thrown to the 
winds. “ No,” she answered in a faint voice. “I still have 
courage to die, but I have none left to suffer uselessly; thanks, 
doctor! It is my destiny! Tet me die quietly.” 

The doctor discouraged, desisted. No one dared to speak 


the; heart op a boy 


245 


again. Then the woman turned her head toward her mistress, 
and, with a dying voice, made her last request. “ My good 
mistress,” she said, sobbing and speaking with great effort, 
“you will send the little money that I have and my poor 
effects to my family through the Consul. I hope that they are 
all alive. My heart presages me good in this last moment. 
You will do me the favor to write that I have always thought 
of them; that I have always worked for them, for my children; 
that my only sorrow is never to see them again; but that I 
died with courage, resigned, and blessing them—my husband, 
my eldest son, and my poor Marco, whom I have borne in my 
heart up to this last moment-” Becoming suddenly ex¬ 

cited, she cried, clasping her hands: “ My Marco, my little 
child 1 My life!”—and raising her eyes filled with tears she 
perceived that her mistress was no longer beside her; they had 
secretly called her away. She looked for the master; he had 
also disappeared. No one but the two nurses and the surgeon 
were in the room. 

She could hear in the adjoining room a great noise of steps, 
a murmur of hasty and subdued voices and repressed exclama¬ 
tions. The sick woman fixed her eyes upon the door and 
waited. After a few minutes, the physician appeared with an 
unusual expression upon his countenance; then her master and 
mistress, each with an altered face, entered the room. The 
three persons looked at her with a singular expression, and 
exchanged a few words in a low tone. It seemed to her that the 
physician said to the mistress: “ It would be better at once ! ” 
“ Iosefa,” said the mistress with a trembling voice, “ I have 
some good news for you. Prepare your heart for good news. ” 

The woman looked at her attentively. 

“ News/’ continued the lady, growing more agitated, “ that 
will cause you great joy.” 

The sick woman’s eyes dilated. 

‘ ‘ Prepare yourself, ’ ’ pursued the mistress, ‘ ‘ to see a person 
to whom you are very much attached. ’ ’ 



246 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


The woman raised her head with a start and rapidly began 
to observe alternately her mistress and the door, with flashing 
eyes. 

The mistress, growing pale, added, “ A person has just 
arrived unexpected to you. ’ ’ 

Who is it ? ” cried the woman in a strange, choking voice 
like that of a frightened person. 

A moment later she 
gave vent to a shrill 
scream, and, raising 
herself to a sitting 
posture on the bed, 
remained motionless, 
with her eyes staring, 
and her hands on her 
temples as though 
confronted by a su¬ 
perhuman apparition. 

Marco, dirty and 
tattered, was stand¬ 
ing there on the 
threshold of the door, 
held back by the doc¬ 
tor’s arm. 

The woman cried . 
“My God! My God! 
My God! ” 

Marco ran forward, 
she raised her flesh¬ 
less arms, and pressing him to her heart with the strength of a 
tiger, burst into a violent laugh broken by deep sobs, without 
shedding any tears. Then she fell back suffocating on he* 
pillow. 

But she soon recovered, and, crazy with joy, covering the 
head of her boy with kisses, crying- “ How is it that you are 














THE HEART OF A BOY 


247 


here?—How is it possible?—Is it you?—How you have 
grown !—Who brought you here ?—Are you alone ?—Are you 
not ill ?—Is it you, Marco ?—This is not a dream is it, great 
God ?—Speak to me. ’ ’ 

Then suddenly changing her manner, she said: “No! 
Be silent ! Wait!”—And, turning hastily to the surgeon: 

‘ ‘ Quick, quick, doctor. I wish to recover. I am ready. Do 
not lose a moment. Take Marco away so that he cannot 
hear.—My Marco, it is nothing; I will tell you everything.— 
Another kiss, go.—I am ready for you, doctor.” 

They took Marco away. The master and mistress and the 
women quietly left the room, only the doctor and the surgeon 
remained. They closed the door. 

Signor Mequinez tried to draw Marco into a distant room, 
but it was impossible; he seemed rooted to the floor. 

“ What is the matter? ” he asked. “What is the matter 
with my mother ? What are they doing with her ? ’' 

And then Mequinez said softly, trying to pull him away: 
“ Listen, I will tell you; your mother is ill; it is necessary to 
perform a simple operation; I will explain everything to you; 
come with me.” 

“No,” replied the boy resisting, “ I wish to stay here; 
explain it to me here.” 

The engineer heaped words upon words, trying to pull him 
away. The lad began to get frightened and trembled. 

Suddenly a sharp and shrill scream, like the cry of a person 
hurt to death, resounded through the whole house. 

The lad answered with another desperate cry, saying, 
‘ ‘ My mother is dead ! ’ ’ 

The doctor came to the door and said, “ Your mother is 
saved ! ” 

The boy looked at him for a moment and then threw himself 
at his feet, and sobbing exclaimed: * ‘ Thanks, doctor, thanks!’ ’ 

But the doctor .lifted him up saying: “ Get up, stand up ! 
You are an heroic child. You have saved your mothers life !” 


248 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


SUMMER 

Wednesday the 24th. 

The Genoese boy Marco is the next to the last little hero 
with whom we will form an acquaintance this year. Only one 
remains for the month of June. There are only two more 
monthly examinations, twenty-six school days, six Thursdays, 
and five Sundays. One already feels the end of the year 
approaching. The pupils are already dressed in their summer 
clothes. It is a fine sight to see them as they come out of the 
school room. They look so different from what they did last 
month; the curls which touched their shoulders have been cut 
off; all the heads are shorn; and we can see the bare calves of 
the boys, and their bare necks. Straw hats of every shape 
with ribbons which fall down upon the back; blouses and 
neckties of all colors. The smallest ones all wear red or blue, 
a border sewed on, or a tassel, something of a bright color, 
put on by their mothers, no matter how, in order to make them 
showy, even among the poorest of them. Many come to school 
without a hat, as if they had run away from home. Some 
wear their white gymnastic suits. There is a boy in Mistress 
Delcati’s room who is dressed in red from head to foot, like a 
lobster. Some wear sailor suits; but the handsomest of all is 
the Tittle Mason, who now wears a large straw hat which 
makes him look like a small candle with a shade over it. It is 
very laughable to see him make the hare face beneath it. 

Coretti has put aside his cat-skin cap and wears an old grey 
silk traveling cap. Votini has a sort of a Scotch suit, close 
fitting; Crossi displays his bare breast; Precossi is lost inside 
of the blue blouse of the blacksmith. And Garoffi?—Now 
that he has been obliged to lay aside his cloak which hid all his 
wares, all his pockets remain visible, filled with every kind 
of bric-a-brac, which forces itself out with the lottery lists. 
Every one knows what he carries; fans made of half a news- 


THK heart of a boy 


249 


paper, knobs of canes, and arrows to throw at birds, and some 
May bugs, that crawl out of his pockets and go slowly over 
his jacket. 

Many of the little ones carry bouquets to the teachers. 
The teachers are also dressed in summer attire of bright 
colors, except the “kittle Nun” who is always dressed in 
black, and the teacher with the red feather who still wears her 
red feather and a knot of red ribbon on her neck. The ribbon is 
all tumbled by the hands of the pupils, who always make her 
laugh and then they run away. It is the season of cher¬ 
ries, of butterflies, of open air music on the avenue, of excur¬ 
sions into the country. Some of the Fourth Elementary boys 
already run away to bathe in the River Po. Every boy has 
his heart set upon vacation time; every day we come out of 
school more impatient and happier than the day before. The 
only thing which pains me is to see Garrone dressed in mourn¬ 
ing and to notice that my poor teacher of the first upper is 
whiter and more emaciated than ever, her cough growing worse 
and worse. She walks bent over and salutes me in a very sad 
way. 


POETRY 

Friday the 26th. 

Thou dost begin to understand the poetry of school , Enrico , but 
for the present thou only seest the inside of it. It will appear to 
thee more beautiful and more poetic in thirty years from now , 
when thou wilt come here to accompany thy children and behold it 
from the outside , as I do now. At the close I stroll through the 
silent streets around the building , and listen at the windows of the 
ground floor , close by the window blinds. Through one of the win¬ 
dows I hear the voice of a mistress who says: il Ah } that baron the 
V,’ that is not right , my child , what would your father say f” At 
another window near , / hear the full voice of the master, who is 
slowly dictating: “ / will buy fifty meters of cloth for four and 


250 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


one-half lire a vieter. You will sell these -. ” Further ahead 

it is the voice of the mistress with the red feather, who reads in a 
loud voice : “At that moment Pietro Micca, with a lighted fuse —” 
From a neigh bo? ing class comes a sound like the sharp twittering 
of a hundred birds, which means that the teacher has left the room 
for a moment. I move ahead, and at the corner I hear a pupil 
crying and the voice of the mistress who reproves and consoles him. 
From other windows issue verses, the names of great men, frag¬ 
ments of sentences which advise virtue, love of country and cour¬ 
age. A few moments' silence ensue, during which one would 
think that the building is empty, and it does not seem possible that 
there are seven hundred boys inside; then one hears hilarious out¬ 
bursts, provoked by the jest of a teacher in good humor - and 

the people passing by stop to listen. They all cast a look of sym¬ 
pathy at that kind building which contains so much youthful vigor 
and so many hopes. Then one hears a sudden deafening sound 
and clapping of books and satchels, a rustling of feet, a sort of 
buzzing which spreads from class to class, from the top to the bot¬ 
tom, like the sudden diffusing of good news; the janitor is 
making his rounds to announce that the session is over. At that 
noise, a crowd of men, woyien, girls and youths are rushing here 
and there in front of the door, awaiting, some their brothers , some 
their nephews, while from the doors of the class rooms come forth, 
as if poured out into the large hall , the smallest children to take 
their little cloaks and hats, creating a confusion upon the floor, 
dancing all around till the janitor drives them out, one by one; 
finally, they leave in long rows , stamping their feet . Then all the 
relatives begin a shower of questions : “ Did you know your les¬ 

son? How much work has he given you f What do you have 
for to-morrow ? When will the monthly examination take 
place ? ’ ’ Even the poor who do not know how to read open the 
books, look at the problems and ask how many points their children 
had. ‘ ‘ Only eight f ” “ Commendation and ten points ? ’ ’ 

“Nine on the lesson f ” And they grow angry or rejoice, and 
question the teachers in regard to the prospects of the examination. 




THE HEART OF A BOY 


251 


How beautiful it all is / How great , and what a noble prom¬ 
ise for the world! 

Thy Father. 


THE DEAF AND DUMB GIRD 

Sunday the 28th. 

The best way to finish the month of May was with that 
visit which I made this morning. We were about to go out 
when the bell rang, and we all went to see who it was. I 
heard my father exclaim in astonishment: 

‘•You here, Giorgio?” It was Giorgio, our gardener of 
Chieri, whose family is now at Condove. 

He had just come from Genoa, where he had landed the day 
before upon his return from Greece, after having worked there 
for three years on a railroad. He looks a little older than 
when I saw him last, but has a rosy and jovial face. 

My father wished him to come in but he refused to do so; 
and becoming very serious, inquired at once: “ How is my 
family ? How is my Gigia ? ’ ’ 

“ She was well a few days ago ” answered my mother. 

Giorgio drew a deep sigh and said: “ Let the Lord be 
praised! I did not have the courage to present myself at the 
Deaf and Dumb Asylum without first hearing something about 
her. I beg permission to leave my valise here and hasten to go 
after her. It is three years since I have seen her, my poor 
daughter! Three years since I have seen any of my people! ” 

My father told me to accompany him. 

“ Another word, please,” said the gardener upon the land¬ 
ing. But my father interrupted him: “And how is it about 
your business ? ’ ’ 

“Quite good,” he replied, “thanks to God. I have 
brought home a few soldi. But I was about to inquire how 
the education of the little deaf and dumb one is progressing; 
tell me a little about it. When I left her she was like a little 




252 THE HEART OF A BOY 

animal, poor creature. I do not put much confidence in those 
institutions. Has she learned to make signs ? My wife wrote 
me that she learns to speak and is making progress? But 
I was saying to myself: ‘ What does it matter if she does 
learn to speak if I do not know how to make the signs ? How 
can we understand each other, poor child!’ It is all right 
enough for the deaf and dumb to understand each other, one 
unfortunate with another unfortunate. How then is she get¬ 
ting along ? How is she ? ’ ’ 

My father smiled and replied: “I will not tell you any¬ 
thing; you will see for yourself; go, go; and do not rob her of 
one minute more of your presence.” 

We left the house. The asylum is quite near. On the 
way, walking with long strides, the gardener was talking to me 
and all the time growing sadder. ' ‘ Oh, my poor Gigia, to be 
born with that misfortune! To think that I have never heard 
her call me father and she has never heard herself called 
daughter by me, and that she has never heard^or spoken a word 
in this world! It is fortunate that we found a charitable gen¬ 
tleman to pay her expenses at the asylum. But she could not 
go there before she was eight years old. She has been away 
from home for three years now. She is fully eleven. Has she 
grown, tell me, has she grown much ? Is she in good spirits ? ” 

‘‘You will soon see,” I said to him, hastening my steps. 

“ But where is this building ? ” he asked. “ My wife took 
her to that place after I had gone away. It seems to me it 
must be in this direction.” 

We had just arrived. We immediately entered the parlor 
and one of the janitors came to meet us. 

“lam the father of Gigia Voggi,” said the gardener; “send 
for my daughter instantly.” 

“They are having their recreation,” replied the janitor, 
“ I will go and notify the teacher,” and he went away. 

The gardener was no longer able to speak or keep still, and 
he was looking at the pictures on the wall without seeing any- 



THIS HEART OF A BOY 


253 


anything. The door opened and the teacher, dressed in black, 
entered, holding a girl by the hand. 

Father and daughter looked at each other a moment, and 
then they fell into each other’s arms, uttering a cry. 

The girl was dressed in a striped reddish clpth gown and a 
white apron. She is taller than I am. She wept and pressed 
her father’s neck with both arms. 

Her father disengaged himself and began to look at her 
from head to foot with tears in his eyes; and, panting as though 
he had been running a distance, he exclaimed: “ How she has 
grown! How handsome she has become! Oh, my dear, my 
poor Gigia! My poor deaf and dumb girl! And you, Signora 
mistress ? Tell her to make some signs for me that I may see 
if I can understand, and then after awhile I will also learn. 
Tell her to make me understand something by gestures.” 

The teacher smiled and said in a low voice to the girl, “who 
is this man who has come to see you ?’' 

And the girl with a thick, strange, dissonant voice like that 
of a savage who speaks our language for the first time, but pro¬ 
nouncing distinctly and smiling all the time — “ It is-my 

fa-ther.” 

The gardener fell back and uttered a cry like a lunatic: ‘ ‘She 
speaks ! But is it possible ! How can it be ! She speaks ! 
You speak, my child! Do tell me, do you really speak?” and 
he embraced and kissed her on the forehead three times. ‘ ‘ But 
is it not with signs that they speak, signora teacher ? Is it 
not with the fingers like this ? ’ ’ 

“ No,” replied the mistress, “ it is not with gestures. That 
was the old method; here they use the new method, the oral. 
How is it that you do not know it ? ” 

“ I knew nothing about it,” replied the gardener, amazed. 
“ I have been away for three years. Perhaps they have writ¬ 
ten it to me but I have not understood it: I am a sort of a 
blockhead. Oh, my little girl, you understand me then ? You 
hear my voice? Answer, do you hear? Do you hear what I say?” 



254 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


‘‘No, my good man,” replied the mistress, ‘‘she cannot 
hear your voice because she is deaf; she understands from the 
movements of your lips what you are saying, but she does not 
hear your words, and not even those which she speaks to you; 
she pronounces them because we have taught her letter by let¬ 
ter how to place the lips and move the tongue, and what an 
effort she must make with her chest and throat to throw out 
the voice. ” 

The gardener did not understand, and stood with his mouth 
wide open; he did not believe it possible. 

‘‘Tell me, Gigia,” he said to the daughter, speaking in 
her ear, “ are you glad your father has returned ?” and raising 
his head he waited for the answer. 

The girl looked at him thoughtfully but said nothing. 

Her father was perturbed. 

The mistress laughed. Then she said : “ My good man, 

she does not answer you because she has not seen the move¬ 
ment of your lips — you have spoken in her ear. Repeat the 
question, keeping your face in front of hers.” 

Looking sharply in her face, her father repeated : ‘ ‘Are 

you glad that your father has returned ? That he will never 
go away again ? ’ ’ 

The girl who had looked attentively at his lips, trying to 
see inside of his mouth, at once replied : ‘ ‘ Yes, I am gla-d 

that you have re-turn-ed, that you will not go away again.” 

The father embraced her impetuously, and then in great 
haste, in order to assure himself still further, he overwhelmed 
her with questions. 

“ What is mamma’s name? ” 

“An-tonia.” 

“ What do you call your little sister? ” 

“A-de-laide.” 

“ What is the name of this asylum?” 

“The Deaf and Dumb.” 

“ How much is two times ten ? ” 


the: heart of a boy 


255 


“Twenty." 

We thought that he was laughing for joy, but all of a 
sudden he began to weep. That was also on account of his joy. 

“Have courage,” said the mistress, “you have reason to 
rejoice and not to weep. Do you see, you will make your 
daughter cry also. Be cheerful. ’ ’ The gardener grasped the 
teacher’s hand and kissed it two or three times, saying: 

‘ ‘Thanks, thanks, a hundred times thanks. Thanks a thousand 
times, my dear signora mistress ! And do forgive me that I 
do not know how to express myself better ! ’ ’ 

“ She not only knows how to speak, but she can write also. 
She knows how to calculate. She knows the name of all the 
ordinary objects. She knows a little history and has some 
knowledge of geography. She now belongs to the normal 
class; when she has gone through two more classes she will 
know a great deal more. When she leaves this place she will 
be in a condition to take up some profession. We have .some 
of our deaf and dumb in stores, waiting upon customers, and 
who know how to do business like other people.” 

The gardener was again astonished. He acted as though 
his ideas were again becoming confused; he looked at his 
daughter and rubbed his forehead. His face showed that he 
wished to ask another question. 

Then the mistress turned to the janitor and told him to call 
a girl from the preparatory class. 

The janitor came back in a short time with a deaf and 
dumb girl about eight or nine years old, who had entered the 
asylum a few days before. 

“This girl,” said the teacher, “is one of those to whom 
we teach the first elements. This is the way we go about it. I 
wish to have her say ah. Pay attention.” The teacher opened 
her mouth as we open it to pronounce the open a , and she 
motioned 'to the girl to open her mouth in the same way. The 
child obeyed. Then the mistress made a sign to her to throw 
out her voice ; the girl emitted her voice but instead of saying 


256 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


a pronounced o. “ No,” said the mistress, “ that is not right.'* 
And taking the girl by both hands, put one of them on her 
throat and the other on her chest and repeated a. The child, 
feeling with her hand the movements of the throat and chest 
of the mistress, opened her mouth as before and pronounced a 
very correctly. Then the mistress made her say c , /, d , always 
holding the two small hands upon her chest and throat. “ Do 
you understand now ? ’ ’ she asked. 

The father understood, but seemed more surprised than 
when he did not understand. “ Do you teach them all to 
speak in that same way?” he inquired, after a moment’s reflec¬ 
tion, looking at the teacher. “ Have you the patience to teach 
them to speak in that way, little by little, all of them, one by 
one, year after year? You are saints! You are like the 
angels of paradise! And now, please, leave me alone with my 
daughter; leave her with me for five minutes.” 

Pulling her on a side seat, he began to question her while 
the child would answer and he laughed w T ith tears in his eyes, 
striking his knee with his fists, grasping the girl with his hand, 
looking at her, beside himself with hearing her as though it 
were a voice from heaven. Then he asked the mistress: “Am 
I allowed to go and thank the director of the asylum ?* ’ 

“The director is not here,” replied the teacher. “ But 
there is another person whom you ought to thank. Here, 
every girl is entrusted to the care of an older companion, who 
acts as a sister, or a mother to her. Your daughter has been 
entrusted to a deaf and dumb girl of seventeen, the daughter 
of a baker; she is truly kind and very fond of her. Every morn¬ 
ing for the last two years she has helped her to dress; she 
combs her hair, teaches her to sew, mends her clothes and keeps 
her company. Euigia, what do you call your asylum mamma ?” 

The girl smiled and replied: ‘‘ Cate-rina Gior-dano.’’ Then 
she said to her father: ‘ ‘ Very, very kind. ’ ’ 

The janitor having gone out at a motion from the teacher 
returned with a deaf and dumb girl, blonde and robust, with a 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


257 


jovial face, also dressed in a reddish striped dress and a gray 
apron, who stopped at the door blushing; then she bowed and 
smiled; she had the figure of a woman but the expression of a 
child. 

The daughter of Giorgio ran to her, took her by the arm 
like a child and dragged her to her father, saying with her 
thick voice : “ Ca-te-rina Gior-dano.” 

“Oh, what a good girl!” exclaimed the father, and he 
stretched out his hand to caress her, but immediately drew it 
back, saying : “Ah, you dear, good girl, may God bless you, 
may He grant you much happiness and consolation, may He 
make you happier than all your people. Such a kind girl she 
has been to my poor Gigia ; it is an honest workman, a poor 
father of a family who wishes all this to you with all his 
heart. ’ ’ 

The older girl caressed the little one, all the time smiling, 
and the gardener continued to look at her as he would gaze at 
a Madonna. 

“Now you may take your daughter with you,” said the 
mistress. 

‘ ‘ Of course, I will take her, ” replied the gardener. ‘ ‘ I will 
take her to Condove and bring her back to-morrow morning ! ’ ’ 
—The daughter ran away to dress—‘ ‘ Three years that I have 
not seen her/’ repeated the gardener, “ and now she speaks ! 
I will take her to Condove immediately, but first I want to 
make a tour around Turin with my little deaf and dumb 
daughter on my arm, that they may all see her, and I will take 
her to see my few acquaintances, that they may hear her ! Oh, 
what a beautiful day ! This is what you may call a consola¬ 
tion ! Here, give me your arm ; give your arm to your father, 
my Gigia ! ’ ’ 

The girl who had returned with a little cloak and cap, gave 
him her arm. 

“ Thanks to all,” said her father at the door. “ Thanks to 
all with my whole soul! I shall return again, thanks to all! ’ 


258 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


He stood thinking for a moment, then he took his arm from 
his daughter’s and turned back, feeling in his waist-coat 
pocket, and shouted like a furious man: “You see I am a 
poor fellow, but here, I leave these twenty lire for the asylum, 
a nice bright new gold piece ! ” and he threw it upon the table 
with a bang. 

“ No, no, my good man,” said the mistress, moved, “take 
back your money. I cannot accept it. Take it back; we do not 
need it. You will come when the director is here. But he will 
not accept it either, you may be sure. You have worked too 
hard to earn your money, poor man. They will all be grateful 
to you just the same.” 

“No, I wish to leave it,” said the gardener obstinately; 
‘ ‘ and then later—we will see. ” 

But the mistress replaced the coin in his pocket without giv¬ 
ing him time to push her back. 

Then he gave it up, shrugging his shoulders, and throw¬ 
ing a kiss to the teacher and the older girl, he again took 
his daughter’s arm and rushed out of the door, saying: “ Come, 
come, my daughter, my poor deaf and dumb, my treasure ! ” 

And the deaf and dumb girl exclaimed with a thick voice : 
‘ ‘ What a beau-ti-ful sun-shine. ’ ’ 


JUNE 

GARIBALDI 

To-morrow is the National Feast Day 

June the 3rd. 

This is a day of national mourning. Garibaldi died last night. 
Dost thou know who he was f It was he who delivered ten mill¬ 
ions of Italians from the tyranny of the Bourbons. He died at 
the age of seventy-five. He was bom in Nizza , a son of the cap¬ 
tain of a sailing vessel. At the age of eight, he saved the life of 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


259 


a woman; when he was thirteen , he dragged to safety a boat 
loaded with his companions who we 7 e about to be shipwrecked; at 
twenty , he rescued a youth who was drowning in the waters of 
Marseilles; at forty-one, he saved a ship f?om a fire on the ocean. 
He fought f0? ten years in South America for the libe7ty of a 
foreign people. He fought in three wars against the Austria7is 
for the liberation of Lombardy and T7ent. He defended Rome 
against the French in 184p. He liberated Palermo aud Naples 
in i860. He fought again for Rome in ’67. Combatted against 
the Germans , in 1870, for the defense of France. He bore the 
flame of heroism a7id the genius of war. He was engaged in 
forty battles and won thirty-seve7i of them. When he was not 
engaged in war , he worked fo 7 his living; he found seclusion 
upon a solitary island and tilled the land. During his life he 
was a teacher , a sailor , a workman , a merchant , a soldier , a gen¬ 
eral, a dictator. He was great , simple and good , he hated all the 
oppressors , and loved all the people. He always protected the 
weak ones; he refused honor , despised death , adored Italy. When 
he uttered a war cry , a legion of valorous me 7 i would run to him 
from every side. Gentlemen would leave their palaces , work7nen 
their shops , and youths their schools , in order to go a7id fight 
under the sunshine of his glory, hi war time , he wore a red 
shirt. He was a blonde , handsome and strong. Upon the field 
of battle he was like lightning; in his affection like a child; in his 
so7 row like a saint. Thousands of Italians have died for their 
country , glad while dying to see him pass at a distance , victorious. 
Thousands would have died for him; millions have blessed him; 
and millions will continue to bless him. He is dead. The whole 
world mourns for hhn. Thou canst not yet comprehend it. But 
thou wilt read of his deeds , thou wilt hear him spoken of continu¬ 
ally during thy life; and as thou growest , his image will grow 
before thee; when thou art a man , thou wilt behold him as a giant; 
and when thou art no longer in this world , the children of thy 
children, and the thousands to be born of the coming ge 7 ierations , 
will see on high his radiant image glorifymg him as the 7 edeeme? 


260 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


of the people , crowned with the names of his victories as with a circle 
of stars , and the brow and soul of every Italian will beam as he 
pronounces his name . 

Thy Father . 


THE ARMY 

Sunday the nth y the National Holiday having been postponed for seven 
days 071 account of the death of Garibaldi. 

We went into the piazza Castello to see the military parade, 
which filed in front of the Chief Commander of the Army 
Corps, between two rows of people While the soldiers were 
marching past, at the sound of the trumpets and the music of the 
bands, my father pointed out to me the different corps and the 
glories of the flags. At the head of the line came the cadets 
of the academy, who will become officers in the engineering 
and the artillery corps; about three hundred of them dressed in 
black, passed by with the dashing and easy elegance of the soldier 
and student. After them, the infantry passed: first the Aosta 
brigade which fought at Goito and at San Martino, next the 
Bergamo brigade which fought at Castelfidardo, four regiments, 
company after company, thousands of red tassels that looked 
like a double and very long crown of flowers of a blood red 
color, extended and fluttering at the ends, and carried across 
the crowd. After the infantry, marched the battalions 
of the Engineer’s Corps, with their black plumes and 
crimson stripes, and while they were filing past, we could see 
coming in front and back of them hundreds of straight long 
plumes, which rose above the heads of the spectators. These 
were the Alpine soldiers, the defenders of the gates of Italy, 
all of them tall, rosy, and strongly built, wearing Calabrian 
hats and lapels of a vivid green, the color of the grass of their 
mountains. The Alpine soldiers were still filing by when a 
quiver ran through the crowd, and the Bersaglieri,” the old 


the: heart of a boy 


261 


twelfth battalion, the first ones who entered Rome through the 
breach of Porta Pia, their faces bronzed, alert, quick, with 
their feathers floating in the wind, passed like a wave in a 
black sea, making the piazza ring with the sharp tones of their 
trumpets which sounded like cries of joy. But that sound was 
deafened by a rumble which announced the field artillery, and 
they passed proudly, seated upon their caissons, drawn by three 
hundred spans of fiery horses, the handsome soldiers with the 
yellow lacings, and the long bronze and steel cannons glitter¬ 
ing upon their carriages which were rattling and making such 
a noise that the earth trembled beneath our feet. Then came 
slowly, grave and beautiful in their heavy and solid appear¬ 
ance, the stalwart soldiers of the mountain artillery with their 
powerful mules, that mountain artillery, which carries dismay 
and death as high as the foot of man can climb. The last to 
pass was the beautiful regiment of Genoa cavalry, which 
wheeled down like a whirlwind upon ten fields and fought 
scores of battles from Santa Lucia to Villafranca, galloping, 
with their helmets shining in the sun, with their lances erect, 
their pennons floating in the wind, glittering with silver and 
gold, filling the air with jingling and neighing. 

“ How beautiful !’’ I exclaimed.—But my father almost 
reproached me for those words, and said: 

“ You must not look upon the army as an amusing per¬ 
formance. All those young men, full of vigor and hope, may 
be called upon at any time to defend our country and be 
crushed to pieces in a half hour by bullets or grape-shot. 
Every time you hear the cry at a feast, ‘ Long live the army ! 
long live Italy ! ’—just think of the regiment passing over a 
field covered with corpses and flooded with blood, and then the 
hurrahs to the army will come out of the most profound 
depths of your heart, and the image of Italy will appear 
greater and more severe.’* 


262 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


ITALY 

Tuesday the iqth. 

Thus thou must salute thy country in the days of festivity: 

‘ ‘ Italy, my noble and beloved land, where my father and my , 
mother were born and will be buried—where I hope to live and die, 
where my children will grow up and die: Beautiful Italy, grand 
and glorious for many centuries, united and free for the last few 
years; who hast scattered so much light and divine intellect 
throughout the world ! Italy, for whom so many valorous men 
have died upon the field of battle and so many heroes upon the 
scaffold; august mother of three hundred cities and thirty millions 
of children ! I, a child who cannot understand thee, for I am still 
unable to fully know thee, I venerate and love thee with all my 
soul, and am proud to be born of thee, to be able to call myself thy 
son! I love thy beautiful seas, thy sublime Alps; I love thy sol¬ 
emn monuments and thy immortal memories; I love thy glory and 
thy beauty; I love and venerate thy whole country as I do that 
most beloved part where for the first time I saw the sun and heard 
thy name. I love every portion of thee with devoted affection and 
with equal gratitude:— Turin, the valiant; Genoa, the superb; 
Bologna , the learned; Venice, the enchanting; Milan, the power¬ 
ful. I love you all with the equal reverence of a child. Florence, 
the gentle, and Palermo, the terrible; Naples, great and beauti¬ 
ful; Rome , marvelous and eternal. I love thee, sacred country! 
And I swear that I shall love all thy children like brothers; that 1 
will always honor in my heart thy great, illustrious men and thy 
noble dead; that I will be an industrious and holiest citizen, con¬ 
stantly intent upon elevating myself, to render myself worthy of 
thee, to assist with my small powers to cause to disappear from thy 
face all misery, ignorance and crime, that thou mayest live and 
expand tranquilly in the majesty of thy justice and thy strength. 
I swear that I will serve thee as it is granted to me, with my tal 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


263 


ent, with my arm , and with my heart , humbly and boldly; and ij 
the day comes in which I shall have to shed my blood and give my 
life for thee, I will shed my blood and die crying—crying to the 
sky thy holy name and sending my last kiss to thy blessed flag ! * 1 

Thy Father . 


THIRTY-TWO DEGREES CENTIGRADE 

Friday the 16th. 

In the five days which have passed since the national feast, 
the heat has increased three degrees. We are now in full sum¬ 
mer, every one begins to feel tired; the boys have all lost their 
rosy color; the heads droop, the legs grow thin, and the eyes close. 
Poor Nelli, who suffers so much from the heat, has now a face 
the color of wax. Sometimes he falls asleep with his head 
upon his copybook, but Garrone is always prompt to put in 
front of him an open reader, standing it upright, so that the 
teacher cannot see him. Crossi leans his large head upon the 
desk in such a way that it looks detached from the shoulders 
and placed there. Nobis complains that there are too many 
in the room and that we corrupt the air. We have to make a 
great effort to study. I see from the window those beautiful 
trees which cast a dark shadow, where I would like to go and 
run, and I feel impatient because I am obliged to shut myself 
up among the benches. But then I take courage again, seeing 
that my good mother always looks at me when I come out of 
school to see if I am pale; and asks me, while going over every 
page of the lesson: 

‘ ‘ Do you feel bad ? ’ ’ Every morning when she wakes me 
at six to do my lessons, she exclaims : 

'< Courage! there are only so many more days; after that 
you will be at liberty to rest, and you will be able to go under 
the shade of the trees.” 

She is right to remind me of the boys who work in the fields, 



264 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


beneath the extreme heat of the sun, or on the white gravel of 
the river, where they are blinded by the reflection and scorched 
by the heat, and of all those who are employed in glass factor¬ 
ies, who stand motionless the whole day with their faces held 
over a gas flame. They all get up sooner than we do and 
have no vacations. Let us have courage then! Derossi is the 
first in this as in everything else; he suffers neither from heat 
nor drowsiness; he is always alive and merry, with his blonde 
curls in summer as well as in winter. He studies without 
tiring and keeps every one around him awake, as if refresh¬ 
ing the air with his voice. There are two others who always 
keep awake and are attentive to the lesson: first, that stubborn 
boy, Stardi, who pricks his face in order not to fall asleep, and 
the warmer and more tired he gets, the closer he Shuts his 
teeth, and he opens his eyes wide as though he were going to 
devour the teacher; and after him that trafficking lad Garoffi, 
who keeps busy manufacturing fans out of red paper, orna¬ 
mented with borders taken from match-box pictures, which he 
sells for a centesimo each. But the bravest of all is Coretti, 
poor Coretti, who gets up at five to help his father carry wood. 
By eleven o’clock, he can scarcely keep his eyes open and his 
head falls upon his chest. Nevertheless, he shakes himself, 
strikes himself upon the back of the neck, and asks permission 
to go out and wash his face, and tells the others to shake him 
and to pinch him. 

In spite of all that, this morning, not being able to fight 
his drowsiness any longer, he fell into a deep sleep. The 
teacher called him loudly: “ Coretti ! ” He did not hear. The 
teacher, irritated, repeated : “ Coretti ! ” 

Then the son of the charcoal dealer, who lives next door to 
Coretti, arose and said : 

“ He worked from five until seven, carrying fagots.” The 
teacher let him sleep and continued the lesson for another half 
hour. Then he moved softly in front of Coretti’s bench, and 
blowing in his face, woke him up. The latter, seeing the 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


265 


teacher before him, drew back frightened. But the teacher 
took his head in his hands and told him, kissing his hair : 

f ‘I do not reprove you, my child, your sleep is not one of 
laziness; it is the sleep of fatigue. ” 


MY FATHER 

Saturday the ijth. 

Certainly neither thy companion Coretti nor Garrone would 
answer theii father as thou hast answered thine this evening. 
How is it possible , Enrico ? Thou must piomise me that this will 
never occur again as long as I live . Every time that thy father 
reproaches thee a bad answer flies to thy lips. Think of that day 
which will inevitably come when he will call thee to his bedside to 
tell thee: “ Enrico, I leave thee." Oh, my child, when thou wilt 
hear his voice for the last time, and also for a long time after 
when thou wilt weep in thy solitary room, in the midst of those 
books which he will never open again; then thou wilt remember that 
at times thou hast failed in respect to him, and thou wilt ask of 
thyself: ‘ ‘ How is it possible f ’ ’ Then thou wilt understand that 
he has always been thy best friend, and that when he was forced 
to punish thee, he suffered from it more than thou didst; that he 
has never caused thee sorrow but has always done thee good. Then 
thou wilt repent; weeping, thou wilt kiss that table upon which he 
has worked so hard, upon which he has worn out his health for his 
children. Now thou canst not comprehend, because he hides every¬ 
thing from thee except his kindness and his love. Thou dost not 
know that at times he is so weary that he thinks he has only a few 
days more to live, and in those moments he only speaks of thee; he 
has no other care in his heart than that he may not leave thee poor 
and without protection ! And how often, thinking of this, he 
enters thy room when thou art asleep and remains there with a 
light in his hand, lookmg at thee, and then, sad and tired as he 
is, he returns to work ! Thou dost not even know that he looks for 


266 


THE HEART OF A 


BOY 


thee and stays with thee because he has a bitterness in his heart; 
certain sorrows which attack every man in the world , and looks 
for thee as for a friend to find comfort and forgetfulness; and he 
feels the necessity of finding refuge in thy affection to recuperate 
his serenity and courage. Think , then , what a sorrow it must be 
for him when instead offinding affection in thee , he finds coldness 
and irreverence! Never stain thyself again with that horrible 
ingratitude! Think that if thou wert as good as a saint , thou 
wouldst never be able sufficiently to repay him for all that he has 
done and is continually doing for thee. Think also that one can¬ 
not rely upon one's life , that a misfortune may deprive thee of thy 
father when thou art still a boy , in two years , in three months , 
to-morrow. Then , my poor Enrico , what a change thou wouldst 
see in everything around thee; how empty and desolate would thy 
home appear , with thy poor mother dressed in black ! Go , my 
child , go to thy father; he is in his room at work; go on tip-toe 
that he may not hear thee enter; go and place thy brow upon his 
knees , that he may forgive and bless thee. 

Thy Mother . 


IN THE COUNTRY 

Monday the 19th. 

My good father forgave me this time also, and allowed me to 
go on the excursion into the country, which had been planned 
ever since Wednesday with Coretti’s father, the wood-huckster. 
We all felt the need of the fresh air on the hills. It was a reg¬ 
ular feast. Yesterday at half-past two, we all met in the Piazza 
dello Statuto; Derossi, Garrone, Garoffi, Precossi, Coretti and 
his father, and I, with our provisions of fruit, sausages, 
bread and hard boiled eggs; we also had some leather cups and 
some tin cups. We rode in the omnibus as far as Ea Gran 
Madre di Dio, and then off quickly to the hills. Everything 
was green, shady and fresh; we rolled upon the grass, put our 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


267 


faces over streams, and jumped over hedges. Coretti’s father 
followed us at a distance with his jacket on his shoulder, 
smoking his clay pipe; from time to time he would admonish 
us with his hand that we should not tear our trousers. Pre- 
cossi whistled; I had never heard him whistle before. Coretti 
was doing a little of everything with his jack-knife on the way; 
he knows everything, that little man. He makes small mill 
wheels, forks and squirts. He wanted to carry the things of 
the others, and he was laden, wet with perspiration, but as 
nimble as a goat. Derossi was stopping every moment to tell 
the names of the plants and insects. I do not know how he 
manages to know so many things. Garrone ate his bread in 
silence, but he no longer eats his bread with such mischievous 
bites, poor Garrone, since he has lost his mother. However, 
he is always the same, always as good as he can be. When 
one of us took a start to leap over a ditch, he would run from 
the other side and reach out his hand, and because Precossi was 
afraid of the cows, having been tossed by one when a little boy, 
every time that one passed Garrone placed himself before him. 

We went up to Santa Margherita, and then down the incline 
in leaps, rolling in such a way that we ran the risk of hurting 
ourselves. Precossi, tumbling into a thorn-bush, tore his 
blouse and stood there shamefaced with the strip dangling; but 
Garoffi, who always has pins in his jacket, pinned it up so that 
it scarcely showed, while Precossi was saying to him: “ Excuse 
me, excuse me.” Then he started to run again. Garoffi was 
not losing his time on the way; he was picking herbs to make 
salads, with some snails; and every shining stone that he found 
he put in his pocket, thinking there might be gold or silver 
in it. We went along, running and rolling, climbing in the 
shade and in the sunshine, up and down through all the lanes 
and paths, until we came panting and breathless to the top of 
the hill, where we stopped to eat our lunch on the grass. From 
this place we could see an immense plain and the azure Alps 
with their white peaks. We were almost dying of hunger, and 


268 


the: heart of a boy 


the bread seemed to melt in our mouths. Coretti’s father gave 
us each a portion of sausage upon a pumpkin leaf instead of 
a plate. We all began to talk at once about our teachers, about 
our companions who were not able to come on the excursion, 
and about the examinations. Precossi seemed to be a little 
ashamed to eat, and Garrone forced the best of his share into 
his mouth. Coretti sat next to his father with his legs crossed. 
They looked more like brothers than like father and son when 
you gazed at them so near to each other; both red and smiling 
with those white teeth. Coretti's father drank with pleasure 
and emptied the leather and tin cups which we left half finished, 
saying: 

“You, who study do not need to drink so much; it is the 
wood-huckster who needs it ! *’ 

Then he grasped the nose of his child, saying:—“Boys, 
you must like this fellow here, he is the flower of an upright 
man; it is I who say this!” And all except Garrone 
laughed.—Coretti’s father continued to drink. 

“ What a pity! now you are all together as good comrades 
and in a few years from now, who knows where you will be; 
Enrico and Derossi will be lawyers or professors, how do I 
know,—and you other four will probably be in some shop 
working at a trade. And then ‘ Good bye, comrades.’ ”_ 

“What?” said Derossi, “so far as myself am concerned, 
Garrone will always be Garrone, Precossi will always be 
Precossi, and the others the same, even though I should 
become the Emperor of Russia; where they are, I will go.” 

“Bless thee, my child! ”—exclaimed Coretti’s father, rais¬ 
ing the flask,—“ that is the way to talk! Touch! Eong live 
the good companions, and long live the school which makes 
you all of the same family, those who are rich and those who 
are poor !” 

We all touched his flask with our cups and drank for the 
last time. He added: 

“ Hurrah for the squad of the 49th ! ” rising upon his feet 




























































































I 






























THE HEART OF A BOY 


269 


and swallowing the last drop; “ and if ever you have anything 
to do with squads, be careful to be steady as we were ! ” 

It was already late; we descended running and singing, 
walking for long distances arm in arm, and we reached the 
River Po as it was growing dark, and thousands of fire-flies 
were darting through the air, We did not separate until we 
reached the Piazza dello Statuto, where we agreed to meet next 
Sunday in order to go to the Vittorio Emanuele Theater, to 
attend the distribution of prizes to the pupils of the evening 
schools. 

What a fine day ! How joyfully I would have returned 
home if I had not met my poor teacher. I met her as she 
was coming down the stairs of our house, almosc in the dark, 
and as soon as she saw me she took me by both hands and 
whispered in my ear: 

‘ ‘ Good bye, Enrico, remember me ! ”—I noticed that she 
was weeping. I mounted the stairs and said to my mother: 

“ I have met my school mistress.”—“ She was just going 
to bed,” replied my mother, whose eyes were red. Then she 
added with sadness, looking at me: 

“Thy poor mistress is very, very low.” 


THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES TO THE WORKMEN 

Sunday the 25th. 

As it had been agreed, we all went together to the theatre 
Vittorio Emanuele, to attend the distribution of prizes to the 
workmen. The theatre was decorated as on the 14th of March, 
and it was thronged; but almost entirely with workingmen’s 
families, and the pit was occupied by the pupils of both sexes 
of the Choral Singing School, who sang a hymn, “To the 
Dead Soldiers in the Crimea,” which was so beautiful that 
when it was over, the audience arose, clapping their hands and 
shouting, and they were obliged to sing it over again. 


270 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


Soon after, those who were to receive the prizes began to 
file in front of the Mayor, the Prefect, and many others, who 
gave them small books of the Savings Bank, diplomas, and 
medals. In a corner of the pit, I saw the Little Mason sitting 
next to his father; on the other side was our principal, and be¬ 
hind him I saw the red head of my teacher of the second 
class. 

The first to file out were the pupils of the evening schools 
for drawing, then the engravers, the stone cutters, lithograph¬ 
ers and some carpenters and masons. Next those of the com¬ 
mercial school; then those of the musical Lyceum, among whom 
were many girls, working girls, all in gala dress, who were 
greeted with great applause and who laughed. At last, the: 
pupils of the evening elementary schools passed by; it was a 
beautiful spectacle. They were of all ages, of all trades, and 
dressed in all sorts of ways. Men with grey hair, boys from 
the work-shops, and workmen with long black beards. The 
young ones looked at their ease, the grown men were a little 
embarrassed. The people clapped their hands at the youngest 
and the oldest. But no one among the spectators applauded 
as they did at our celebration. One could see that they were 
all attentive and serious. 

The wives and children of many of those who received 
prizes were in the pit. There were some little children, who, 
when their father passed upon the stage, would call him loudly 
by name and point their finger at him, laughing. Some farm¬ 
ers and some porters passed by, who belonged to the Boncom- 
pagni school. There was a bootblack from the Citadella school, 
whom my father knows and who received a diploma. After 
him, we saw a large man, who looked like a giant and whom 
I thought I had seen before. It was the father of the Little 
Mason. He received the second prize. It came back to my 
mind when I had seen him in a garret at the bedside of his 
sick child, and I sought with my eyes the ‘ ‘ Little Mason * ’ in 
the pit, poor child! He was gazing at his father with tears in 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


271 


his eyes, and in order to hide his emotion he was making the 
hare face. 

At that moment I heard a crash of applause, and looking 
upon the stage I saw a little chimney sweep, with a clean face 
but in working clothes, and the Mayor spoke to him holding 
him by the hand. A cook came next after the chimney sweep. 

Then one of the municipal chimney sweeps received his 
medal; he belongs to the Rainieri school. I was feeling some¬ 
thing inexplicable in my heart, something like a great affec¬ 
tion and a great respect, thinking how many efforts those 
prizes had cost those workmen who had families and were 
loaded with cares; how many fatigues were added to their ordi¬ 
nary fatigues; how many hours were snatched from the sleep 
they needed so much; and also of how they must have 
taxed their intellects which were not accustomed to study, and 
I thought of all those hands roughened and calloused by work! 

A boy from a factory passed, and it was evident that his 
father had loaned him a jacket for the occasion, as the sleeves 
hung down so far that he was obliged to turn them up there 
upon the stage to enable him to take his prize, which caused a 
great many to laugh, but the laughing was stifled by the clap¬ 
ping of hands. Then came an old man with a bald head and 
white beard. Some of the artillery soldiers who came to the 
evening class of our school passed by. Then some municipal 
guards and some guards who watch the schools. At last, the 
pupils of the Evening Choral School sang again the hymn, 
“ To The Dead in the Crimea/’ and with so much spirit this 
time and with such powerful effect, that it was clear it came 
direct from their hearts. There was scarcely any applause, 
and all retired slowly in deep emotion and without making 
any noise. In a few moments, the wide street was crowded. 
In front of the door of the theater, there was the chimney 
sweep with his prize book bound in red, and all around him 
stood gentlemen speaking to him. Many saluted each other 
from opposite sides of the street; workmen, boys, guards, and 


272 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


teachers; my teacher of the second class came out between two 
artillery soldiers. You could see wives of workmen with little 
children in their arms, who were holding in their small hands 
the diplomas of their fathers, and were proudly showing them 
to the people. 


MY DEAD SCHOOL MISTRESS 

Tuesday the 2jth. 

While we were at the theatre Vittorio Emanuele, my poor 
school mistress died. She died at two o’clock in the afternoon, 
seven days after she made her visit to my mother. The prin¬ 
cipal came to tell us of her death this morning, saying: 

‘ ‘ Those among you who have been her pupils know how 
good she was, how fond she was of her boys. She was like a 
mother to them. She is no longer here below. A terrible 
sickness has consumed her for some time. Had she not been 
obliged to work to earn her living, she might have been able 
to take care of herself and perhaps would have recovered; at 
least, she might have prolonged her life for some months if 
she had asked for a leave of absence; but she wished to remain 
with her boys up to the last day. Saturday evening, the 17th, 
she took leave of them with the certainty that she would not 
see them again; she gave them some good advice, then kissed 
each one and left sobbing. Now no one will ever see her 
again in this world. Remember her, boys.” 

Tittle Precossi, who had been one of her pupils in the 
first primary, leaned his head on the desk and began to weep. 

Last evening, after school, we all went together to the 
House of the dead to escort her body to the church. The 
hearse, drawn by two horses, was already in front of the house, 
and many people were waiting, talking in a subdued voice. 
The principal was there, all the teachers and school mistresses 
of our school, and also several from other schools where she 
had taught before she came to our school All the children of 


% 














































‘ 




















■ 

'' 













THE HEART OF A BOY 


273 


her class were there, led by their mothers, carrying tapers v 
and a great many who belonged to other classes, and about 
fifty girls from the Baretti school, some holding wreaths in their 
hands, and others, roses. 

A number of wreaths had already been placed upon the 
hearse, upon which was hanging a large acacia crown, bearing 
this inscription in black letters: “ To their school mistress — the 
scholars of the fourth class. * ’ Below this large crown hung a 
smaller one which had been carried there by her own Ixtys. 
You could see in the crowd servant girls, sent by their 
mistresses with candles, and there were two domestics in 
livery, holding lighted torches; a rich gentleman, the father 
of one of her pupils had sent his carriage lined in blue silk. 
They were all thronging in front of the door. Many of the 
girls were wiping away their tears. 

We waited very silently for a long time. Finally, the 
casket was brought down. Several of the little children began 
to weep loudly when they saw the coffin put into the hearse, 
and one started to cry as though he understood for the first 
time that his mistress was dead, and he was so convulsed by 
sobbing that they had to take him away. The procession set 
out slowly and in order. First came the daughters of the Ritiro 
della Concezione, dressed in green; then came the daughters of 
Maria, all dressed in white with blue ribbons; after these came 
the priest; and behind the hearse came the teachers and school 
mistresses, the little pupils of the first upper and all the others, 
and finally the crowd. People looked from the windows and 
doors to see all those children and the floral crown. They 
were saying: “ It is a school mistress.” 

There were ladies who were escorting the smallest boys and 
some of them were weeping. As soon as we reached the 
church, they took the casket from the hearse and carried it 
into the middle of the nave in front of the altar. The school 
mistresses laid the wreath upon it, the children covered it with 
flowers and all the people, with their lighted candles, began 


274 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


to chant hymns in that large dark church. Then all of a sud¬ 
den, when the priest said his last Amen; the candles were put 
out and all left hastily, and the poor mistress was left there 
alone. Poor mistress, who was so good to me, who had so 
much patience, who had toiled for so many years. 

She left a few books to her pupils; to one an inkstand, to 
another a little picture, all she possessed. Two Says before 
dying she told the principal not to allow the smallest boys to 
attend her funeral, she did not wish them to cry. She has 
done much good, she has suffered, she has died. Poor mis¬ 
tress, to be thus left alone in that dark church! Good bye, 
forever, my good friend! Sweet and sad remembrance of my 
infancy! 


THANKS 

Wednesday the 28 th . 

My poor school mistress wished to finish her year at school, 
and she left only three days before the lessons came to an end. 
After to-morrow, we will come together but once more to hear 
the reading of the monthly story, ‘ ‘ A Shipwreck , ’ ’ and then it 
is all over. Saturday, the first day of July, will be examina¬ 
tion day. Another year, and then the fourth elementary 
course is finished. If my mistress had not died, the year would 
have passed well. I think of what I knew last October, and it 
seems to me that I know much more now; that I have so many 
new ideas in my mind; I am now able to speak and to write 
better what I think than I could then; I am also able to figure like 
many adults who are not rapid in calculations and could assist 
them in their business; I understand a great deal more; I com¬ 
prehend nearly everything I read. I am happy, but how many 
have pushed me forward and helped me to learn, in one way 
or another, at home, at school, in the street, and everywhere I 
have gone, and in all places where I have seen anything! I 
thank them all now. I thank, above all my companions, you 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


275 


my good teacher, who have been so indulgent, so affectionate 
toward me, and for whom every acquisition of mine, for which I 
rejoice and feel proud, has been such a fatigue. I thank you, 
Derossi; you helped me several times to understand difficult 
subjects and to overcome the obstacles at the examination. 
And you too, Stardi, good and strong, who have shown me 
with your iron will how one can succeed in everything; and 
you, Garrone, kind and generous, who make all who associ¬ 
ate with you love you; and thanks to both of you, Precossi and 
Coretti, who have always given me an example of courage in 
sufferings and serenity in work; I thank you all, and I say 
thanks to all the others, too. But above all, I thank you, my 
father, my first teacher, my first friend, who have given me so 
much good advice and taught me so many things, while you 
were working for me, concealing your worries, and seeking in 
every way to render my study easy and my life beautiful. You 
also, my sweet mother, my guardian, beloved and blessed angel, 
who have rejoiced over all my joys and suffered all my bitter¬ 
ness, who have studied, struggled and wept with me, with one 
hand caressing my head, the other pointing to heaven. I kneel 
before you as when a little child, and I thank you with all the 
tenderness you have infused into my soul for twelve years; I 
thank you for all your sacrifices and love. 


A SHIPWRECK 

(THE LAST MONTHLY STORY) 

One December morning, several years ago, there sailed from 
the port of Liverpool a large steamship, which was carrying 
on board two hundred persons, of whom seventy were men of 
the crew. The captain and almost all the sailors were Eng¬ 
lish. Among the passengers, there were several Italians: three 
ladies, a priest, and a company of musicians. The steamer 
was bound for the island of Malta. The weather was 
menacing. 



276 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


Among the third class passengers in the forecastle, there was 
an Italian boy about twelve years old, rather small for his age, 
but robust, with the fine, bold and severe face of a Sicilian lad. 
He was sitting on a coil of rope close to the foremast, and he 
kept his hand on a worn out valise which contained all his 
effects. He had a brown face and black wavy hair which fell 
upon his shoulders. He was poorly clad, wearing a torn 
blanket on his shoulders and an old leather bag on his belt. 
He was pensive and gazed about him at the passengers, the 
ship, the sailors who were running past, and at the restless 
sea. He had the appearance of a boy who had suffered some 
great family sorrow. He had the face of a child and the 
appearance of a man. 

After the departure, one of the sailors, an Italian with grey 
hair, appeared forward, leading by the hand a little girl, 
and stopping in front of the little Sicilian, he said to him: 

“ Here is a companion for your voyage, Mario.” 

And he left. 

The girl sat down on the coil of rope beside the boy. 

They looked at each other. 

“ Where are you going? ” asked the Sicilian. 

The girl replied: “ To Malta and then to Naples.” 

Then she added: “I am going to meet my father and 
mother who are expecting me. I am called Giulietta Faggiani. ” 

The boy said nothing. 

After a few moments, he drew some bread and some dried 
fruit out of the bag; the girl had some cakes, and they ate 
together. 

“We will have some fun! ” cried the Italian sailor, passing 
by in haste. “ We are already beginning to toss! ” 

The wind was increasing and the ship rolled heavily. But 
the two children did not suffer from seasickness and did not 
mind it. The little girl smiled. She was about the age of her 
companion, although rather taller; she was slim, dark com- 
plexioned, and looked somewhat sickly; she was dressed in a 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


277 


very plain way. Her hair, which was curly, was cut short. 
She wore a red handkerchief on her head and two little silver 
rings in her ears. 

While eating together they told each other their story. 
The boy had no longer any father or mother; his father, a 
workman, had died in Liverpool a few days before, leaving 
him alone, and the Italian Consul had sent him back to his 
native place, to Palermo, where some distant relatives lived. 
The little girl had been taken to London the year before by a 
widowed aunt, who was very fond of her, and to whom her 
parents, being poor, had confided her for some time, trusting in 
the promise that she should be heir to her aunt’s estate. But, 
a few months after, the aunt was crushed under an omnibus 
and died without leaving a penny. The girl had had recourse 
to the Consul, who had put her on this steamer bound for 
Italy. Both children had been recommended to the Italian 
sailor on board.—“Thus,” concluded the girl, “my father 
and mother thought I would return home rich, and instead I 
return poor.—But they love me just the same.—And so do my 
brothers, I have four of them; they are all small.—I am the 
oldest of the family.—I dress them.—They will make a great 

deal of me when they see me.—I will enter on tip-toe.-How 

ugly the sea is! ” Then she inquired of the boy: “ Are you 
going to stay with your relatives ? ’ * 

‘ ‘ Yes, if they wish to have me, ” replied the boy. 

“ Don’t they care for you? ” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ I will be thirteen years old on Christmas,” said the girl. 

Then they began to talk about the sea and about the people 
they had met. They remained together during the whole day, 
exchanging a few words from time to time. The passengers 
believed them to be brother and sister. The girl was knitting 
a stocking, the boy was thinking. The sea continued to grow 
rougher. At the moment of separation, that evening, befoie 
going to sleep, the girl said to Mario: “ Sleep well.” 



278 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


“No one will sleep well, poor children!” exclaimed the 
Italian sailor, as he passed on a run, having been called by the 
captain. The boy was about to answer his friend: “Good 
night,” when an unexpected rush of water dealt him such a 
blow that it flung him against a bench. 

“Dear me, he is bleeding,” cried the little girl, kneeling 
beside him. The passengers who were running below paid no 
attention to them. Mario was stunned by the blow and she 
wiped his forehead, which was bleeding c Taking the red hand¬ 
kerchief from her head, she tied it around his nead, then she 
pressed his head upon her breast in order Lo knot the ends, and 
in this way she got a blood stain upon her yellow dress just 
above the waist. Mario shook himself and rose to his feet. 

“ Are you better,” inquired the girl. 

“ It is all over, ’ ’ he replied. 

“ Sleep well,” said Giulietta. “Good night.” 

“Good night,” replied Mario. And they descended the 
stairs into their respective dormitories. 

The sailor had predicted aright. They had not yet fallen 
asleep, when a frightful tempest broke upon them. It was a 
sudden onslaught of furious waves, and in a few moments a 
mast was broken, and three of the boats, as well as four 
oxen which were on deck, were carried away like the 
leaves of a tree. A frightful confusion arose on board the 
ship. Everything was crashing and there was a terrible uproar 
of cries and sobs and prayers, enough to make ones hair stand 
on end. The tempest grew in fury during the night, and at 
day-break it was still increasing. The formidable waves dashed 
transversely against the craft and were breaking over the deck, 
smashing, sweeping, and washing everything into the sea. 
The platform which covered the machinery was burst open, and 
the water rushed in with a terrible roar; the fires went out and 
the stokers fled. Huge, raging streams of water were pouring 
into the steamer from every side, and a thundering voice cried : 

“To the pumps! ” It was the voice of the captain. 



■m&i 


























THE HEART OF A BOY 


279 


The sailors rushed to the pumps. 

A sudden wave struck the ship on the stern, demolishing 
the bulwarks and the glass in the port holes and letting in a 
flood of water. 

All the passengers, more dead than alive, had found refuge 
in the large state room. 

At that moment, the captain appeared. 

“ Captain! Captain! ” they all cried at once. “ What is 
the matter ? What is going on ? Is there any hope for us ? 
Are we safe? ” 

The captain waited until they were all silent, and then said 
impressively: “ Let us resign ourselves to our fate.” 

One woman shrieked: “Mercy!” None of the others 
were able to utter a sound. All were frozen with terror. 
Some time passed in this way. The silence was like that of a 
tomb. They all looked at one another with deathly faces. 
The sea was growing more and more furious, and the breakers 
were dashing against the ship. The captain attempted to 
launch a life boat; five sailors entered it and the boat was 
lowered, but the waves overturned it and two of the sailors 
were drowned, one of whom was the Italian; the others with 
great difficulty succeeded in grasping the ropes and got on # 
board again. 

After this the sailors lost their courage. Two hours later 
the ship was submerged in water to the height of the port¬ 
holes. 

A tremendous spectacle then presented itself on deck. 
Mothers were desperately pressing their children upon 
their breasts; friends were embracing each other, and saying: 

“ Good bye.” 'Some were going down to their cabins to die 
out of sight of the sea. One of the passengers shot himself 
in the head with a pistol and fell headlong upon the stairs of 
the dormitory, where he expired. Some clung frantically to 
each other; some of the women writhed in horrible convulsions, 
and a number of them were kneeling around the priest. You 


280 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


could hear a chorus of sobbings and childish lamentations in 
shrill and strange voices, and you could see here and there 
some who were motionless like statues, stupefied, with their 
eyes dilated and without sight, as you see them on corpses or 
lunatics. The two children, Mario and Giulietta, clinging to 
a mast of the ship, were gazing fixedly at the sea as though 
insane. 

The sea had quieted a little, but the steamer was sinking 
slowly; only a few moments remained. 

“ Launch the long boat! ” cried the captain. 

The boat, the last one remaining, was launched and four¬ 
teen sailors and three of the passengers went into it. The 
captain remained on board. 

“ Come down with us! ” they all cried. 

“ I must die at my post!” replied the captain. 

“We will meet some ship/’ cried the sailors to him. “ We 
will be saved. Come down or you are lost.” 

“ I remain!” 

The sailors then cried: “ There is place for one more,” and 
turning toward the other passengers, “ a woman!” 

A woman came forward supported by the captain, but see¬ 
ing the distance between the ship and the life boat, she had 
not the courage to take the jump and fell back upon the deck. 
The other women were all in a faint or almost dying. 

‘ ‘ A child! ’ 1 cried the sailors. 

At that cry, the Sicilian boy and his girl companion, who 
had so far stood as though petrified in an extraordinary stupor, 
suddenly awakened by the violent instinct of self preserva¬ 
tion, let go of the mast at once and rushed to the side of 
the ship, shouting together: “I!—Save me!” and tried to 
drive each other back in turn like two furious beasts. 

‘ ‘ The smaller of the two! ’ ’ cried the sailors, ‘ ‘ the boat is 
already overloaded! The smaller of the two! ” 

Hearing those words, the girl, as though struck by light¬ 
ning, let her arms fall and stood motionless looking at Mario 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


281 


with eyes filled with the anguish of death. Mario looked at 
her a moment, he saw the blood stain upon her waist, recalled 
everything, and a divine idea flashed through his mind. 

“ The smaller of the two!” the sailors were crying together 
with imperious impatience! “We are going! ” 

Then Mario in a voice which did not seem his own shouted: 

‘ ‘ She is the lighter of the two.—You go, Giulietta! You have 
a father and mother! I am alone! I give you my place! 
Go now!” 

“ Throw her over!” cried the sailors. 

Mario grasped Giulietta round the waist and threw her to 
them. The girl uttered a cry as she took the plunge, a sailor 
caught her by the arm and pulled her inside the boat. 

The lad remained standing on the side of the ship, with 
his head held high, his hair flying in the wind, motionless, 
tranquil, sublime! 

The boat moved away but was hardly able to pull out of the 
whirlpool of the waters, produced by the sinking of the 
steamer, and which threatened to overturn it. 

The girl almost lost her senses, but at last raising her eyes 
to the boy, she broke into an outburst of weeping. 

“ Good bye, Mario,” she cried to him between her sobs, 
and with her hands stretched towards him: “ Good bye! 
Goodbye! Goodbye!” 

“ Good bye,” cried the lad raising his hand above his head. 

The boat moved swiftly away upon the troubled sea under 
that dark sky.—No one was any longer crying on the 
steamer. The water was already lapping the edge of the deck. 

Suddenly the boy fell on his knees with his hands joined 
together and his eyes turned to the sky. 

The girl covered her face. 

When she raised her head and looked again upon the sea, 
the ship was no longer there. 


282 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


JULY 

THE EAST PAGE FROM MY MOTHER 

Saturday the ist. 

The year is finished, Enrico, and it is a nice thing that the 
image of the sublime child, who sacrificed his life for his little 
friend, will remain with thee as a remembrance of the last day. 
Now that thou art about to separate from thy teachers and thy 
companions, I have sad news to communicate to thee. The sepa¬ 
ration will last not only three months, but forever. Thy father, 
for reasons concerning his profession, is obliged to leave Turin 
and we must go with him. We will move 7iext autumn. Thou 
wilt have to enter a new school. Thou art sorry for this, art thou 
not f For I am sure that thou carest for thy old school, where for 
four years, twice a day, thou hast experienced the pleasure of 
toiling, where thou hast seen for a long time, for so many hours 
each day, the same boys, the same teachers, the sa,meparents, and 
thy mother who was waiting with a smile for thee; thy old school, 
where thy talents were developed, where thou hast found so 7 nany 
good companions, where every word that thou hast heard had a 
purport of something for thy good, a7id where thou hast not expe¬ 
rienced any sorrow without its being beneficial to thee! Thou 
wilt carry this affection with thee, a7id say farewell from the bot¬ 
tom of thy heart to all those boys. Some of them will meet with 
misfortunes, several may soon lose theirfather a7id mother; others 
will die young; some will probably shed their blood nobly upon the 
field of battle; others will become good a7id upright workmen, 
fathe7s of industrious families such as their own. And who 
. knows that there might not be some one of them who will render some 
very great service to his country and make his name glorious ! 
Thou wilt separate from them with affection, leaving a little of thy 
soul in that great family in which thou didst enter as a child and 
from which thou comest out a youth, and which thy father and thy 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


283 


mother love because there thou hast been loved so much. The 
school is like a mother. My Enrico, it snatched thee out of my 
ai ms when thou couldst scarcely talk, and now it returns thee to 
me, tall, strong, good, and studious; may it be blessed, and thou 
must never forget it, my child. It will be impossible for thee to 
forget it; thou wilt go about the world, and thou wilt see large 
cities and marvelous monuments; thou wilt forget many of these, 
but that modest, white building with those closed blinds, and the 
little garden where sprouted the first flower of thy intelligence, 
thou wilt always behold it to the last day of thy life, as I will see 
the house where I first heard thy voice ! 

Thy Mother. 


THE EXAMINATION 

Tuesday the <f.th. 

The examination day has come at last. Around the streets 
and about the school, we hear nothing else spoken of, by the 
boys, by the fathers and mothers, even by the teachers: 
every one talks about examinations, points, problems, 
average, remanded, promoted; every one repeats the same 
words. Yesterday morning we had the examination in com¬ 
position, this morning in arithmetic. It was affecting to see 
the parents taking their boys to school, bestowing the last 
advice on the way. Some of the mothers would accompany 
their children as far as the benches in the school room to see if 
there was ink in the inkstand and to try the pen, and turning 
around at the door to say : ‘ ‘ Have courage ! Pay attention ! 

I beseech you ! ” 

Our assistant teacher was Coatti, the one with that rough 
black beard, who has a voice like a lion and who never pun¬ 
ishes any one. Some of the boys on the benches were afraid. 
When the teacher unsealed the letter from the school board 
and took out the problem, not a breath could be heard. 



284 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


He read the problem in a loud voice, looking first at one 
and then at another with terrible eyes, but we could see that 
if he had been able toMictate the solution also and have us all 
promoted, he would have experienced much pleasure. 

After an hour’s work, a great many began to grow tired, as 
the problem was difficult, and one of the boys cried. Crossi 
was beating his head with his fist. It was not the fault of 
some, that they were unable to solve it, as they had not had 
time to study, having been neglected by their parents. How¬ 
ever, a providence was at hand. You ought to have seen how 
much pains Derossi took to help them out, how he tried to pass 
his figures and to suggest the operation without being noticed, 
anxious for all as if he had been our own teacher. Garrone, 
who is strong in arithmetic, also helped all those that he could, 
and even assisted Nobis, who, finding himself in a quandary, 
was unusually kind. Stardi remained motionless for more than 
an hour, with his eyes on the problem and his fist at his tem¬ 
ples, and then he put down his work in five minutes. 

The teacher was walking between the benches, saying : 
“ Be calm! Be calm! I advise you to be calm! ” And when 
he saw some one who was discouraged, in order to make him 
laugh and restore his spirits, he opened his mouth as if to de¬ 
vour him, imitating a lion. 

Tooking through the blinds about eleven o’clock, I noticed 
many of the parents coming and going in the street, looking 
rather impatient. There was Precossi’s father, wearing a blue 
jacket, having just come out of the workshop with his face 
still black. Crossi’s mother, the vegetable vender, was there, 
as well as Nelli’s mother, all dressed in black; she was not able 
to keep still. A little before noon, my father came and raised 
his eyes toward my window : my dear father! At noon we 
were all through. There was quite a performance at the exit. 
The parents all ran to meet the boys and ask them questions, 
and they looked over the leaves of the copy-books, comparing 
them with the lessons of their companions : ‘ ‘ How many opera- 


the heart of a boy 


285 


tions ? “ What is the total ? ” “ How is it about the sub¬ 
traction ?” “ What is the answer ? ” “ How is it about the 

point in the decimal ? ” All the teachers were going here and 
there, called by a hundred voices. My father took the rough 
draft from my hand, looked at it and said : “ It is well done . 5 ’ 

Next to us was the blacksmith Precossi, who was looking at 
the problem of his son, rather uneasily, not comprehending it, 
He turned toward my father and exclaimed: “Would you 
favor me by telling me the total ? ” My father read the figure. 
The blacksmith looked at the book—it agreed. * ‘ Bravo, little 
fellow!” he joyfully exclaimed, while my father and he 
looked at each other with a pleasant smile like two friends ; 
my father reached out his hand, and the other shook it and 
they separated, saying: “Until the oral examination”— 
“ Until the oral examination.” After walking a few steps, we 
heard a falsetto voice which caused us to turn around. It was 
the blacksmith singing. 


THE EAST EXAMINATION 

Friday the yth . 

This morning we had the oral examination. We were all 
in the class room at eight o’clock, and at a quarter past eight 
they began to call us, four at a time, into the large hall, where 
there was a large table covered with a green cloth, and around 
it sat the principal and four teachers, among whom was our 
own. How well I then perceived that he is really fond of us. 
While the others were questioning, his eyes were constantly 
fixed upon us; he grew uneasy when we were uncertain in our 
replies and serene when we gave a good answer; feeling every¬ 
thing, and was making us signs a thousand times with the 
hands and with the head, as if saying:—“ That is right—no— 
pay attention—slower—courage!” 

Had he been allowed to speak, I believe he would have 
prompted us in everything. If one after the other our fathers 



286 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


could have been put in his place, they could not have done 
any better. Ten times I felt like crying “ Thanks ” to him in 
the presence of them all. When the other teachers told me: 
“That is right, you may go,” his eyes beamed with happiness 

I returned to the class and waited for my father. .Nearly 
all of the pupils were there. I sat next to Garrone. I was 
not a bit happy. I was thinking that it was the last time that 
we should sit so near each other! I had not yet told Garrone 
that I should not be able to go through the fourth elementary 
with him, that I had to leave Turin with my father; ne knew 
nothing about it. He was sitting there bent double, with 
his thick head leaning upon the desk, drawing some ornamen¬ 
tal figures around a photograph of his father, dressed as a 
machinist. His father is a big tall fellow with a head like an 
ox, and has a serious and honest look like his boy. While he 
was bent down thus, with his shirt a little open in front, I 
spied on his bare and robust chest the golden cross which 
Nelli’s mother had given him when she learned that he had 
protected her son. However, it was necessary that I should 
tell him that I was going to leave, and I said to him: 

“Garrone, next autumn my father will leave Turin for¬ 
ever. ’ ’ 

He asked me if I were also going, and I answered that I 
was. 

“ Will you not go through the fourth elementary with us ?” 
he asked. 

I answered, “No.” 

He remained quiet for a short time, continuing to draw. 
Then he asked, without raising his head: “Will you ever 
think of your companions of the third elementary ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” I replied, “I will remember all of them, but I 
will think more of you than of the others. How could I forget 
you ? ’ ’ 

He cast at me a serious glance, which expressed a thousand 
things, and said nothing; but he reached out his left hand. 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


287 


pretending to draw with the other, and I grasped it between 
both of my hands, that strong and loyal hand! 

At that moment, our teacher rushed in with a red face and 
said hastily in a low and merry tone of voice: “ Good boys, 
so far everything goes well, I hope those who remain will do as 
well, my good boys! Courage! I feel very well satisfied.” 

And in order to show us his content and to exhilarate us, 
leaving the room quickly, he feigned a stumbling movement, 
catching the wall to prevent his falling; he, whom we had 
never seen laugh! It seemed so strange that instead of laugh¬ 
ing we were all dumfounded; we all smiled, but no one 
laughed.—I cannot explain the pain mingled with tenderness 
that that childish act of joy caused me. That moment of 
cheerfulness was his whole reward, the reward of nine months of 
goodness, of patience, and of worries! It was for that he had 
wearied himself so much, and that he had come so many times 
to teach when sick, our poor master! That was all, and 
nothing else did he ask in exchange for so much affection and 
so many cares! 

And it seems to me now that I shall always see again that 
joy of his when I remember him for many years, and when I 
am a man, if he be still alive and we meet, I will tell him 
about that outburst which touched my heart, and I will kiss 
him on his white hair. 


FAREWELE 

Monday the ioth. 

At one o’clock we gathered for the last time in the school 
room to listen to the result of the examination and to receive 
our books of promotion. The streets were thronged with 
people. They had also invaded the large hall, and a great 
many of them had entered the class room pushing themselves 
as far as the teacher’s desk. In our class room, they were 
filling all the vacant space between the wall and the first 


•r 88 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


bench. There was the father of Garrone, the mother of 
Derossi, the blacksmith Precossi, Mrs. Nelli, the vegetable 
vender, the father of the Little Mason, the father of Stardi, 
besides many others whom I had never seen before. One 
could hear from every side a buzzing and hum, as though we 
were in a square. Our teacher entered; a profound silence 
ensued. 

He was holding in his hand the catalogue and commenced 
to read it at once. Abatucci, promoted, sixty-sixtieths; 
Archini, promoted, fifty-five sixtieths; the Little Mason, pro¬ 
moted, Crossi promoted. Then he read loudly: “Ernesto 
Derossi, promoted, seventy-seventieths, and first prize.” 

All the parents who were there and who knew him exclaimed: 

‘ ‘ Bravo, bravo, Derossi! ’ ’ 

He shook his blonde locks with an easy and beautiful 
smile, looking at his mother, who saluted him with her hand. 
Garoffi, Garrone, and the Calabrian boy, promoted. Then 
three or four names in succession, remanded; one of them 
began to weep as his father who stood near the door made him 
a sign of menace. But the teacher said to the father: “ No, 
sir, allow me; it is not always the pupil’s fault, it is sometimes 
hard luck, and this is the case with your son. ” Then he read: 
“ Nelli, promoted, sixty-two-seventieths.” His mother sent 
him a kiss with a fan. “ Stardi, promoted with sixty-seven- 
seventieths;” but hearing that fine point, he did not even 
smile, nor did he take his fist from his temple. The last of all 
was Votini, who had come there finely dressed and with his 
hair well brushed; promoted. Having read the last name, the 
teacher arose and said: 

“ Boys, this is the last time we will meet together. We 
have been together a year, now we separate as good friends, 
do we not? I regret to separate from you, dear children.”— 
He hesitated and then resumed: “ If at times I have lost my 
patience, if at times I have been unjust or too severe, forgive 
me.” 


THE HEART OE A BOY 


289 


** No, no,” said the parents of many of the pupils, “no, 
signor maestro, never, never.” 

“ Forgive me,” repeated the teacher, “ and remember me. 
Next year you will no longer be with me, but I will see you 
all again, and you will remain forever in my heart. Farewell, 
boys! ” Immediately he came forward into our midst, and we 
all reached our hands to him, rising from the benches; some 
kissed him, and fifty voices cried together: 

“Until we meet again, master! Thanks, signor maestro; 
may happiness follow you! Do remember us! ”—When he 
went out he looked as though oppressed by emotion. 

We all came out in confusion. From class rooms on every 
side the others were coming out. and they were all mingled 
together. There was a great noise; the boys and parents were 
saying farewells to the teachers and to the school mistresses, 
and were saluting one another. The mistress with the red 
feather had four or five little children on top of her and about 
twenty around, who were almost taking her breath away. 
They had torn the hat of the “Little Nun,” and they had 
stuck a dozen bouquets between the buttons of her black dress 
and in her pockets. A number of them were greeting Robetti, 
who that day had laid aside for the first time his crutches 
From every side, one could hear : “Till next year !” “Till 
the twentieth of October?” “To meet again at All-Saints 
Day! ” We also greeted one another. How we forgot all the 
disagreements of the past in that moment! Votini, who had 
always been so jealous of Derossi, was the first to rush towards 
him and throw his arms around him. I saluted the Little Mason 
and kissed him just at the moment he was making to me 
for the last time the hare face, that dear lad ! I saluted Pre- 
cossi and Garoffi who told me the date of the drawing of his 
last lottery and presented me with a little majolica paper 
weight which was broken in one comer. I said good-bye to 
all the others. It was nice to see how poor Nelli clung to 
Garrone, so that they could not take him away; they all 


290 


THE HEART OF A BOY 


crowded around Garrone and said: “Good-bye, Garrone, 
good-bye till we meet again.’* And some were touching him 
and pressing him to say good-bye, that brave, noble boy! His 
father stood there in amazement; he looked at us and smiled. 
Garrone was the last one whom I embraced in the street, and I 
stifled a sob in my heart; he kissed me on the forehead. Then 
I ran to my father and mother. My father asked me: “ Have 
you bade farewell to all your school-mates ? ”—I replied: “ I 
have.”—“If there is any one whom you have wronged, go 
and ask his forgiveness. Is there any one ? ”—“ No one,” I 
replied.—“Then, good-bye!” said my father with emotion, 
casting a last glance at the school.—And my mother repeated: 
“ Good bye! ”—I was not able to speak. 







O 


* ^ c, u * c 

[.//.'s' ^ 

^ VJ ., '>v' 

r o/ ^ +?Wk 

\> A "/ > ' A>' S 

> . A X . *„ - ” "■ 

V -> <> /L »>* A'\ <r 



\ 0 ^. 





u 


A* 


tt\„ * 


v- , o_ 

C* ✓ Vk ^ * O :• ^ 

°«J- * 1 N o v^' 

^ C* • \ ^ 0 a 

.* -* <=* * 
<V 1^ 

as 



* A - y 

o » k * -y <- * / 

O N G* 

,-0 k > * . <? 

v 





; ,x^ v 





A 


-fc 

**'\^ A .> 1 * 

AA .A *' 

. -v^s*: **- $ : *m 

, ^ i , , >- vfi* 

* * ^^ /// ' 1 w - 

C i', *" . X nj 

^ * V I 

l k 

A*' ' 

■>- <* - * 

C? - A- 

“ /” 

a. ./> '■ "."y/i ,., x _ _ _ 

,y^$p * ^ •> Vv % s v J * . 0 ' - 

"V ' ' * a s S \ X |, ■?/> y 0 * v * 

♦y ^ .** v* '% f 0* c° Nc > 

o, v ^ 2 - ^ v’ » 

r> N M?n!//vzz^ * 





++ <? 



O o 


,\ 


- ^ X - w a k 

^ * * / */> * -o M 0 ’ \^ 


v *'aV > v « 


vV ^ ^ # " X X 

o h 0 ‘ ^ * a | a 

V- ^ Y * 0 y. > , 0 V ' 

v, ^ ^ 

,s ^> :<^^. : % = ^ ^ 

,* V'4^A* 

fyJz^'x * k V°.‘ a; ov ' * * 

.x .• ^ ' A y 1 :M^y< * ot f AwS^V^- >* 



g ^ ^ A- <p 


\ 0 ^. 


« i 






^ ,;:p ! \ " mm f^w u „ c> 0 - ; -'W>* ^ ~ «■ 

" : AA • : • •'A. .’X* -■•;<’ - A A ; ” T - 

"* 4 - ^ Sa@ - <^-A *A 2 lA,= 

- Z ^ v 






V 'A 


^ r JTN^'tv ^ -v_ v 

.' . - \J 0 k' A- A 


<P. ww ’ * v i a * 


'/\ ° 

^ * 
O, / 

-f o 



^ > 

'^v .v\ 
</> ,cv 


-Jm' 


0 » \ 


\ 0 ^. 


A 



A 


,\r v 
-* .V 

v -o- 

- 

<* “ ^ f:T 

,A-I 


\ 


%" ’b^ ^ v*’ - xmz> * 

» .... ... . ^ °o 

A 

,♦ ,.A A *,^i 

' n0 A »,,,.*'■ A 0 ’ „. 

" . v aa*;'. 

' ' ^ A v 

c^X v * A V ’V <?’ 

, . # / o,v' ik a 0 ^ ^/^Ts A 

* * . o. ? 0‘ ^ * ^?* ' 

X A * ".., c 0 -* A'W' A. a • « 



9 I A 


Mii\ \y- ■ , 

-A-:t%.A ,A A VVfe 

s x ^ 





r 


... ,v. ' 'DO 

A 


A 


A v 


& ** A 0 '“VvA „ o I- 

” *■ ' " 1 ' ^ s" . ; ' s, l b ’ ’’ s " O' » ' ^ 0 / 







V ,v\V 



\\ 





r >, ^ 
r; i>. 

* 1/ 

> 

s 

1 \» 

/ 

-p 

r» 

T O 


■0 

c- 















c 6, v^* 

,N v x ^ .0 v* ^ 

/. aV *• rf\%^/h n Kc ^ 

V> ,<v A s ^ C *>\> C7 

W ' V » «i\AV/-\/ k ^ T* ^ . ^ ,WJ </> |f V' «e H\\ V. - L w ^ C^ * O 

i 

V- 0 * ^ w < 0 - N c <> * ' ,. fc * s <\ | , O 'o 

°' I 0 - - c *♦> /v.;^%°o 

^ - '’«> o v : « ; * ^ V 1 ' ’ ijgh&'f- 

' K x> ^ - V -_*3 

^ e 


-*> 

S s % A 

.;., AV “ A V-'''* 

' " '- A ^ -"• 

v 0 o 


mw : x ° °* * 

'* 0 ° c (b * 



0 

o 5 ^ 

> V 6 
<* ^ 0 *' 

I ' . * C , ~>/. * .0 S o ' 

A° s' ,. '* C* V> ■ % Y * °/ 

c - * •• —- •■*•. ■;, < r ' .V. I ' v '»^' * r 

■“ ■ 1 v - 





•y* 

c 


* v 




v. 0 '' v '* oTo ^ ^ ’’ 

% V ',* Y 


A - ^ /V ; 

/A ® <5 S ° 

- A v <v / „ 

* * ^ ^ 

V .,. % * 




v tp 


V * 



rJ\ ->SJiy /U • ’>1 A 

, _ « 

% »v»^ 

* 3 

* * •, % ” ' , 0 ^." ' ‘ '**' »•'"♦ ^b. » " '■ * <o 

: X* l(ft ■#: W ;^: ? :-A; ^ 

V-^v * t ^ »*/: ... V IBy\ . 



o^‘ ^ fCQ\ $ 5 ? / 

> as * - ', - 




i z <<- i 5 -■ 

f _ . v ^ ^ % .'V 

' t> « ^ S ^ 0 Z K ^ .0 

a \ \ \ n ^ v> *s 0 \ / , 

. ,0 ’ v 0 v * <P 

v - x ^/rrj-> * O (» *> ^ -P 

A x N ^ x ^ ^ 

^ 'o o' f -jJsSrSs « V 


r> 

O 

■>* 

«*■ 

v' 

z 

o 

•*> 

/ 




.s ^ ^ 



\ V 


« (A /^i *> ^ ^ -. rr^ ^v« 

£ 

y ‘ Jl '^f~ <r ^5 , 

- * f • ' * s * , . * .0 V 0 ’ v # 

x* -W^ V ^ 

• <A- - .“-i 7 |s«i - ••/'. ,A X » 




tv s 0 ' '■ <• '4 

0 •*? 

r 


. v < --*x 

' y O ^ c r 

^ V> * /■• pf 







A 


iV ♦ '•>' ^ ■-> -^..^v- ^ 

A° 

0 V < 0 N ^ ^ 0 

. ^ * ^\5^v v x , ^ 

^o x = .^ 

, ,. '° 
* • • '-V\;.. ,/v" s "' o # ’ 

a- c ^ v ^ a 9 ' 

^ s ; / LJ' ; - - ^ * /,\^;, ’% a $ - . 

j 1 , x ^ v \ ^ f : ,,V s % ' --* * =V ;:; 

" ^ '. l > ^ • -4 .o>’ * f > ' V >. 

'^/- y •• * <■ " X / ' ‘ s S S -\ r> 0 f l 

X^-,% 9 j> C p- , 0 N *•« <f^ - ;: A\ V n' 1 * « f b 

*+, S' *£{$&> * ■» v ^ ' v V-^ '' J 

A > . /r^-‘ V'*' - oo x c s^>. ' *+ y " Mh£ : 

■ lXX » A . '•'1 i S « 1 /■ f S'. ,y*,“ 



•^G 


\ 


0 O 



' , !?• 


A 

























